What Remains at the End of Winter

There is nothing left
but the dog in me.
He is occupied by finding,
as I am lost
touching each empty branch on the tree
walking towards the dim kitchen light
wandering around a party with all my dead friends.

Something about me must say
I know how to take care of this ghost
and that one
too.

I awaken each day
to the sound of the dog pawing
maddeningly at the door

each day another recounting of my history,
bloody and rhythmic
reliable
begging to be let out.

Every morning I deny this,

body remains
to spite
despite it all.

I ask,
when is it my turn to host?
I have bought a cake
and candles
yet no one arrives.

The answer
it sounds like snow melting

it sounds like a crocus rising in the face of every warning.

by Maggie Berke

Maggie Berke is a poet, educator and organizer from Long Island who cares about dirt, rain, witches, poetry and patterns. She holds a B.A. from Bard College in Environmental Studies and Gender Studies. Maggie thinks often of Nature, production, reproduction, and women; themes reflected in her work. Her poetry can also be found in Grabbing the Apple, a collection of poems by New York women.