April is hungry for another victim
The spring is fortunate to have us again
in her jungle fever wreckage, each piercing
stalk of green cajoling its way up from the
dirt hurts her eyes, and the scarecrows scar
the patches of our faded dresses, and the
women of my womb prepare bonnets
along the prairie while great-granddaughters
write sonnets in the settled north.

Green, is a scheme, a theme
that must be explored,

a sound
screamed in regret, a thought
provoking provocative responses,
the grandfathers are on top of their
daughters,

the mothers are asleep on
the sidewalk, the sister is awoken,
and the father tears the banister
from the wall in anger,

the daughter runs away into the
heat of April, into the sodden
sunset, the first real heat stains
plague the sky; pestilence
of wrapped gifts, a barrette
left on a bathroom counter,

she is a book
best not opened,
a poem, in process,

a curse, best not caressed.