repeat/taeper

December, again, holds you by the throat with a smothering

childlike harshness, holds you feverish in its baby fist and limp

like a plush bear with loose stuffing, year-worn. Generous in its

ability to prop you in place, to woo you with unhurried technicolor.

December, again, with eyelashes pointed down, pulled like a

window shade, a sleep/awake doll waiting to be tucked in, still

counting on the rustle of dreams. You move with dead batteries:

stand, crawl, hunch. Collecting, compiling, dust-sweeping.

December, again, is antsy in the way that you itch a molting

wound. Hovering over candles, humming ‘now’ now, ‘always’

always, the hatching of rituals in splintered wood, the sound

of bells—web-weaving—remembrance like a knot in the spine.

Erin Latham Shea is a Pushcart-nominated poet residing in Connecticut. Her work has appeared in the Vocal+ Fiction Awards Anthology, Ink and Marrow, Bitter Melon Review, and ARTWIFE Magazine, among others. She recently received the 2024 Vassar Miller Poetry Award at her university. You can find her on Instagram @somebookishrambles