I have nothing to say about April
I’m locked outside of all that blooms.
gleam like external hearts
among thorns, hiding from birds.
Blossoms, color of peach, color of pear,
can’t flit, they are stitched.
I’m lost in this quiet, I hear stones,
stars hang as needless keys.
Icier, cuttier, a small figure
is in eternal suspension within me.
I can see his tiny hands, his face,
in buttercups’ coronas.
He’s untouchable like me,
forever adjourned, forever gone.
We lie silent, we just lie together,
the air dancing around in a circle,
In a dream, he chisels my spine
fashions me new ribs, new hips.
His blood sings to me,
he’s sick of my unbeing, as I am of his.
Still, we both know it’s over,
spring is a creased postcard.
The truth is we never found
something easier to live with
than the love we shared in April gardens
– this broken toy.