Poetry by Natalie Staples

False Spring

Before anyone is awake,

the dog whines to go out.

The corner of the grass where she likes

to sniff glitters in the morning light.

I hold tight and pull her close toward me

to avoid the shard.

When I look again, it is only dew on the ground.

And I think of what my friend said that writing down symptoms

is like waiting for something

to go wrong.

Another bullet point in the moleskin,

pain when             pain when

on a scale of one to ten.

Instead, this morning: an odd Chicago November,

in the fifties when the dog gallops down

our narrow apartment alleyway to the black gate

and my coat is unbuttoned to feel the breeze. I feel flush

and weightless

like a false spring—

tulips coming into bloom there in the neighbor’s garden,

where the bird feeder shines and the water

begins to thaw in its silver dish.

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Natalie Staples holds a B.A. from Kenyon College and an M.F.A. from the University of Oregon. Her work has appeared on National Public Radio and in The American Poetry Review, Literary Matters, Birmingham Poetry Review, Able Muse, Mezzo Cammin, Terrain.org, and SWWIM Every Day.