A fawn pauses from grazing infant grass. In the distance a train shouts, heralding not spring

but its weaker twin. I am in love with beginnings but their bliss is not spring.

My friends see hips swing & call it funny how I dizzy & praise God after a breakup, cut free

to silhouette my figure against sheets unobserved. I say—Yes!—& miss nothing, not even spring.

I will not confess to any of my mother’s accusations—I believe in God like I believe

in her tulip beds, which is to say, probably. I do not explain my lightness or why it is not spring.

Stitched into one night: slice of street, pooled moons, gold hairs marooned everywhere, sea

appearing on dry land. My mouth against cool glass as I kiss what is not spring.

I fawn in the direction of whoever opens first, arms wide as the cherry trees weaving

into the sky. Branches tremor, urging: Emma, run! You may coax me apart, but not this spring.