by Kristen Erickson
Brown blocks of ice dot devils strips along Broad Avenue but it is April after all and churchyard signs eagerly announce that he is risen.
Winter’s leftovers melt and the city girls sprawl oily in backyards arms outstretched heads bowed praying for freckles.
Dandelions may be just weeds but still my son plucks them from the earth one by one.
Do I hear them wailing or is that my imagination as he suffocates them in his damp fingers and places them gently behind my ear.