All mental collapse happens
in the winter.

The brief pop 
of red tree leaves 
before dropping.

That’s it.

I was enclosed
in my bed 

when I marked the distance
between me 
and spring.

Flashlight under the covers with a map
of my head in my hands.

I fell asleep 
for a long time.

A brain is like a spider’s web,
shaped for protection
but by the end of summer

soft.

January yanked me 
in every possible direction,

my mouth still curled 
unstably in response.

Finally inched out, 
I found myself at the tail
end of a triumph.

When I opened my eyes
the sunset was so colorful

I cried.

Macallan Lay is a poet and project manager living in St. Louis, MO. She is currently pursuing her MFA at the University of Missouri. Her work has been featured in Flat Ink, Litmag, and Bad Jacket. You can find her online @macallanlay.