April

NaPoWriMo Day 29, poem 31/30: I was thinking today about everything that's happened this April. The last few weeks of March were some of the worst days I've had in a long time, but as I've written these poems and carried on things have gotten better and better. I owe NaPoWriMo a lot. Here's the last poem, barring some stroke of inspiration.



April

April, born
in baffling cruelty,
sleeps soft tonight.
She waited locked
in her room while March,
that bitch sister,
lingered vicious.
She wrapped her cracked
skin in poetry,
stanzas like bandaids,
stitching the wounds with
long strings of words,
crawled into the open
of spring.
Born a fragment, she is now
some sort of sonnet,
a little unconventional,
her eyes to the future.
Her room is unempty
when she returns,
not retreats.