I have nothing to say about April
I’m locked outside of all that blooms.
Sweet-scented berries
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,
nursing us.

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.