April, of birth and death, showers
and labors, newborn greens asserting
renewal along hedgerows and forsythia
(“poor cynthia”) by the interstate --
April, one hand on the starched pillow,
a nosegay of sausages, swollen, plum-violet,
and aching, aching, April: the purest
taste of bittersweet, a batter of mourning
and desire rising in a close oven,
sorrow’s toothpick testing its center
and coming up raw.