LGBTQ+ Poem: December is a Fuzzy Month, by Lynn Conrad

Sitting on the hard-curved cement frost covered bench,
with etched antique design,
my mind wanders.
December is a fuzzy month.
Chill penetrates my dry cracked skin,
pierces brittle bones and infiltrates the marrow,
when my blood freezes solid.
December is a cold and heartless month.
It was a year and a day,
or close enough.
My memory is fuzzy in cold December.
Mom fell after Thanksgiving weekend.
A mass in her lungs;
tests showed it spread,
like an intricate spider web,
through her brain, and
left a beauty mark on her spine.
In the same hospital,
a year and a day later,
or close enough,
my memory is fuzzy in cold December,
Pam had a mass in her lungs.
Tests revealed,
it covered her brain like a Belgian lace,
sleeping cap, and
left a dark smudge on her spine.
December is a cold and heartless month.
When icicle tears drip on my cheeks,
forming rivers and tributaries,
sliding off the cliff of my chin.
Wrinkled map of my brain,
full of detours and dead ends.
My memory is fuzzy in cold December.
Quietly wrapped in thick white chenille robe
tightly knotted,
a fantasy faux hug of earlier times,
sipping hot black tea, alone
creating a thaw
moisturizing the marrow,
smoothing the map,
looking for alternate routes to Spring,
when December becomes a warm memory,
Sitting on curved cement garden bench etched with antique design.

Author: poetryfest

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