Boston Spring

In Boston, spring is sudden,
like a twist of gin, or an evening storm,
sliding out of the dark like an oil spill.

It’s a snail with the sun in its shell,
galloping along like a mint pony.



Heart-shaped graffiti appears between
morning and evening commutes,

steady as a song, staccato as a bobby pin
falling to the tub as I soap up my hair
on these bright bird-mornings.



It’s as soft as two eggs, over easy,
with butter sliding down the slopes of toast,

turning into a fat pool of yellow,
catching the light in its diameter.

Remember

1.
Memories seep out of us like golden sap
as my sister sits behind the wheel of Betty,
our yacht, our silver Buick.

2.
Remember how Dad used to burn
the webs of gypsy moths with his lighter?

With ribbons tied around their trunks,
we knew which trees were selected for cutting.

We made the sign of the cross as we watched the flame.

3.
Remember how he set us on the backs
of horses that didn’t belong to us?

Our little legs felt the tickle of coarse hair
as we wished for Appaloosa ponies of our own,
remembering mom’s polaroids of her pet.

4.
Remember how we thought
I’d never be able to drive?

I’m quiet in the passenger seat.
There’s no need to mention the fainting,
the unconcious stretches of silence,
all that blood to test, to fill up tiny tubes.

5.
We miss our exit on the highway,
wind into the Pennsylvania terrain
with rivers like open incisions
between the hillsides.

I glance over as you run your fingers
over your scar, healed just above your heart.