April’s Fool

Spokes of an umbrella flatten and poke,
catch and cut. Fingertip or lip, cuts slip
with liquid salt, pale yellow or egg yolk
warm, sunnyside up. Threaded pink, they drip
and ache with spring colors. No more neutral
(grey, black, white), this broken skin cracks open
the hidden joke between sea and futile
rain’s efforts to be sweet while still hoping
to meet. Leaf buds red or violet before
turning green, sharp enough to hurt. She is
the line between red and white, drawn tight; sore,
and bored with waiting for rain to stop, says
let the wind fix what it broke, the rainbow
drawn in cloud and smoke over absent snow.

2 responses to “April’s Fool

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