The tulips arrive like a silent army
in the midst of school closures
and supply runs, dressed to kill in red
while we slip into sweatpants.
I text a picture of me wearing nothing
but a string of pearls and thigh highs to a friend;
another writes her cancer is back.
One would think April had something better
to offer our broken bodies
than a sprinkle of sun
among the narrow streets,
barely enough to open scalloped teeth
hungry for love and rain.
I’m siting on my bed,
legs crossed and bare,
breasts spilling out
of a silver Armani jacket.
I click the camera and hit send.
The sirens never stop on Wednesdays.
People have started to leave offerings
on their porch steps—a bag of beans,
brown shoes, Dora the Explorer.
Who knows what the spirits require
to keep one’s brother from becoming
another stolen breath; we battle
deranged knights and well dressed
demons walking unmasked
among the cherry blossoms,
fingering every petal while we clap and howl
at sunset, as though this rough magic
will save all our pretty blooms.