Death March for Janus
Holly in hand, empty suitcase, and fish scales fallen from our kohl-caked eyes, we cross the equator holding on to our secret names.
The evidence is there, though you have swallowed your lipstick and wrapped our circus-red handprints in love like weeds, like cyclones on the southern tropic.
We are nomads in the New Year, old dogs with old tricks, uneasy at the sight of brand new bones.
Don’t you fret, darling, it won’t be long. Last year left us famished, thirsty, ruined, and it will run us down.
- © Justine Rosenberg ( @jlimrosenberg )
