2.
yellow paint on the
parking meter heads—
Spring is here

I said, “cedar waxwings.” “They are busy.”
“That’s how I know who they are.”
They act as if being chased by a big shadow
under the blue, blue sky
as if they intercepted my thought
one by one, on cascading beats, picked

a spot on the branches of a large gum tree
— still a bare tree
their buzzing calls that sound
like an electric shield also ceased
they stayed still, still, still
I counted my heartbeats; how much longer?

The tree was too tall for me to see their colors
and we had to move on
but as I shifted in my seat, I saw
with my mind’s eye: the dashing black
around the eyes, blondish crest, lemon-yellow hemmed tail
and red droplets on their wings, like melted wax

the details are a disclosure —
each body, one ounce of divination
swinging through the spring air
I turn to you and the sun is on your knuckles on the wheel.

“Make More Love” wall art
laughs above my pillowed head,
hung before breakup.

Hugless in Phoenix
cuddles chiweenie’s silk fur,
inhales musk and warmth.

Masks dangle key rack:
floral, lip prints, checkered; three
are grandgirl’s, three mine.

Gray birds perch upper
branches of yellow ash tree,
look down. I look up.

The cocoons burst
like overfilled water balloons.

The leaves emerge darker,
a more emerald, sea-foam green.

The dew-laden air will rush through the house
like an excitable puppy.

And I will dance with a spring-in-my-step,
umbrella in hand, like Fred Astaire.

See how she teeters
without support, fully
flared weight hoisted
by a skinny leg on tiptoe.
She must have sneaked
out barefoot from the
basement to be here
first. Picked her way
up through the tangled
thatch while everyone
slept. Put on her
makeup without a
mirror or a friend.
She means business.

See what she has to do
to rouse the heatless
heart of a world where
we have lived too long
in the dark, tipped
away from the sun,
acquiring a taste for
emptiness
in the colors of grief.
No wonder she has
to try so hard.

See how she spills her
thrill of neon fuchsia
freely into the crusted
monochrome. See
how she dances for us
at the pleasure of the
wind, alone with no
piano, lit by nothing
more than her own
shameless flamingo
flame atop this little
battered stage
of dirty snow.

This is the kind of
uncommon hustle
we need from the
first bloom springing
the flat earth open
at our feet–proof
of life at its tacky,
plump-cheeked best,
too much rouge,
two-tone eyelids,
hot pink lips
elliptical, electrical
clamoring for love.

and my hands and
the miles of water between us,

Wondering what the distance means,
our bodies like pebbles that don’t know when to drown.

Look at us, the cracks in our bones grasping for light.
Look at how bad we are at sinking:

my arms flailing like a broken moon—
orbiting you like a planet with no gravity.

Your smooth back, your empty ribcages,
seizing me with those dirty hands

And the tiny stones lodged inside of them.
Every spring, I have a dream

Where you are almost naked,
staring at the sky in a field of golden wheat,

looking into the aubergine sunset,
your skin the junction of tomorrow and what was—

smooth enough for skipping stones.
Silence is the tightest bud,

So we do what we can
to keep from making a sound,

but you were right:
It’s not the sinking that scares me, it’s what comes after.

You were the one who taught me that those two things are different,
both our chests crumbling like boulders.

Autumn leaves drift
and tumble
down the canyon

Winter wonderland
slip on unexpected ice
break a leg

Now the warming days
plums blossom
hope and fear arrive together
on the breeze

Sometimes spring can
really hang you up
the most