In April the potholes could swallow you whole.

 

Pollen squalls across roads and falls on crews that patch them up, flashing lights and orange cones as sure a sign of spring as blowing off work for opening day.

 

In April pitchers blow in their hands and players leave trails of rising breath as they hustle base to base.

 

In April you run through rain and wait for May.

 

Playgrounds swarm with children sprung from apartments, fences lined with smiling moms and dads.

 

In April the asphalt’s cracked and storms that pound the shoreline take away the shapes you know, undertow a grief you trust will sweep you off your feet without a word.

 

You tell yourself it won’t be worse in April. It is. Worse: there’s no explaining why. You lie

and say it’s the weather. Whether or not it rains the ground is wet.

 

In March the soil starts to thaw. By April soil’s soft enough for seeds.

 

The earth is soft enough for sleep, deep enough to swallow you whole.


Brian Simoneau is the author of River Bound (C&R Press, 2014). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Boston Review, Cincinnati Review, The Georgia Review, Mid-American Review, RHINO, Southern Indiana Review, and other journals. He lives in Connecticut with his family.

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