After April Rain
First Place, Frontier Poetry Industry Prize, 2019
When the dogwood in our yard drips dry, pink blooms erupt like wounds. Knowing me, my brother once said, be sure to live outside of sadness. I craved storms the way some were addicted to drugs or horses, I adored the word flank for its military muscle. On my left sits gloom, on my right the memory of a Buddhist monk. He was passing through town. I made an appointment. About my daughter, he said, she will do what you do. After that, I sought silver linings without edges sharpened, drank chamomile tea, kept a journal until I turned coward. Finding my daughter in the bathroom, I calculate our odds and press a cloth to her arm. She drops the blade in a corner crammed with dirty laundry. I couldn’t speak until now. No longer captive to her grief, my daughter points to full moons and horses clustered in a mountain field, hooves carving columbine. She climbs the fence, feet covering ground, planted on rock. I think girl and hear thunder.