Lavender
My roommate and I only believe in nightmares.
We are young and gay and unbothered
when we offer static to family conversations.
Sebs stumbles into my bed with delirium
trailing behind them. The sun unearths itself
and we answer, carrying ourselves porchside.
Daybreak is enough to illuminate the sores
of the stage. Wooden. Rotted. Not enough,
sunlight, to massage heat into the splints.
We resort to coffee. Mugs. Lavender syrup.
Sebel drips the last drops into their cup
and wraps a gracious full-bodied thank you
around my ribcage. We talk about the lavender
my partner’s mother grows, gifting me
bundle after bundle. Mothers. We hold
our breath. There are calls for rationing
at this hour. Restriction rings like thankless.
And though we are full of fever, please watch us
rejoice at waking up, at emptying ourselves
into a hold.
Jo Snow is a trans poet from Wendell, North Carolina. They are a first-year MFA at The University of Alabama, a Graduate Council Fellow at UA, national nominee for the AWP’s Intro Journals Project contest and first place winner of the 2022 A.R. Ammons Prize in undergraduate poetry.