Crocuses, you’re down there somewhere,
          but, sorry to say, I forgot you existed.
          The New Ferocity gave me brain-freeze;
          the continent a crystal skull of ice.
          Across a gyre of debris-field waves,
          your imperial purple has been dredged from  floods.
          Resolved into a dew, soaked earth overheats.
          So it was with last spring with the cat. What cat?
          I spent a week in and out of bed with death,
          playing nurse or doctor  in a backless gown,
          hooked to a slow-drip icicle IV.
          My sister brought crocuses to block the snow
          of overbleached sheets, the view, my mirrored blank.
          Name snipped off my wrist, I was free to walk.
          At home, my kids swooped, captive songbirds.
          Funeral or wedding march? I climbed stair-stop-stair.
          And there on the bed was the cat. We have a cat?
          I’d forgotten she existed. Only then could I melt.

KATERI LANTHIER’s poems have been published in Canada, the U.S. and England. Her first collection is Reporting from Night (Iguana Books, 2011). She was awarded the 2013 Walrus Poetry Prize.