January Burns

The heavyweight of resolutions

The last sips of mulled wine

Splinter into the darkness down my throat 

I choke as I always do

The oppression of January

And its unpalatably sweet promise

Hack away at my torso

A heavy lump when limbed in plank mode

My worn-out body digs into the cold 

In obeisance to the gravity of linoleum 

As I unresolve every partial poem

Of its knowing where the road leads

I am every dreamer 

who grows hope like an untended garden 

when so much of what we reap is perishable

I have never had the cocoon of a waiting room

There’s no riot of colour waiting to explode

I am a silkworm, not a butterfly

and the future is a patchy tapestry

I needle with dim eyes

I have the sky

but I’m rooted to dark leaves

and when years dangle like hung numbers

I ask myself

Will I be the worth of broken promises to self

Yesterday, today, and tomorrow?