it is April. forever’s as far as tomorrow but the sky is so close it stings.
the fetor of the dogwood tree we drove away from six years ago
seeps through my bedroom window.
last night at the dinner table my father announced he didn’t believe in free will,
so we bowed our heads to worship Influence.
what I didn’t say: freedom, naked, is yesterday.
dad, does it count as backfiring
if I’m wrestling the gun to my chest?
mom, is this what you thought having a daughter would be?
me, with my wispy hair & your mother’s eyes?
this too-familiar youth that is no longer yours to waste?
you taught me to believe I could fly & now I jump off every cliff I come across.
it is April. my sisters & I, we call the dirt soil now
& it is under our fingernails,
curving like the crook of an umbrella handle.
there were a lot of things I could do before I decided my hands were too clean.
that is to say, I am too angry.
that is to say, I am tired of watching women run out of anger by thinking it’s exhaustible.
blooming thunderstorms, billowing tulips.
paternal creator, dear fastidious Definition: who was there to name God but the Beginning?