Wake (April)
by Abbie McCabe
The paper
of a birch upstairs
peels itself away in sheets.
People rest
their things on any surface.
They rest their selves on any surface.
Some bodies
cannot find rest
in the cemetery. The robins
plumb the old knells
in search of worms.
Spring quarry.
It is always
almost April. I am always
close to something.
This year, the daffodils
are the yellow of egg yolks.
Their petals are too thin,
unfinished.
They will not see
the summer.