April in Myth
April is old like water, prehistoric, recycled. Womb and bladder.
To my Third World parched skin, she’s America, running the tap.
And now, in a foreign hottub, she mothers me, as if she
has it to spare. Water and muscles, air and my salty grief.
April has bloomed before, on schedule, sometimes an early surprise.
She has chased and she’s been cupped to the lips, been drunk in,
and done someone’s share of drinking. Me, too, always in August.
On April’s flesh, tears and kisses evaporate, leaving shine.
On mine, brine, crusty, leaving in cakes like the ice shelf.
I watch it go, with foreboding that natural disasters will result.
But water and her children won’t be possessed. In time,
she does the possessing, pooling foolish souls like shrimp,
pulling us through hurricanes and extinction and silence from space.
Mammoths, raccoons, wrens and Americans.
Like water, April is old, knows how to crest and trough, be a beating
organ of the beast, a good germ on the living planet.
Some herons are like pterodactyls pulled by hunger too far from shore.
There are fools and there are fish. Drink, says April.
Extinction breeds myth. And oh, what a magnetic myth we make.