this is how I want to become
in November when all the sugar manifests
into colors: all varieties of rust and gold
if the wind catches a strand of hair
breathes life into it, till it writhes and twists
and hisses—so be it
I had my fill of what others call me
what they want me to be, I’m through
with bickering about labels
listen: there is a hint of frost in the air,
if you stop everything, you can hear
crystals forming
I want that—to be that sharp
and hard and cold—to stare you
into stone, if I must
look: I never asked you to follow me
out here, alone and without notice, if you
stay stuck here, don’t expect me to return