Yes, it’s the season of tender buds after nothing,
but too, of a boot thwucked off in the mud, a tossed diaper
blooming beneath the dogwood. There’s unmaking in the making
of every season. One good melt and here’s the sloughed off

everything suddenly on wet display. Yeah, yeah, daffodils, wren
song, sugar eggs, and getting pregnant while already
pregnant, which is a thing rabbits can do, and mice can do.
We kill our gods to watch them rise, and just now when

I doublecheck what feels made up, other animals, even
the occasional human woman can do it, too. Creation, like destruction,
is mostly one accident on top of another, is mostly doubled
up language, blood and spittle, the incubating truth

begot in the tenuous vessel of yesterday’s body. Yeah, yeah, peach blossoms,
iris blades, buds and multiple clutches
of bunnies. After winter’s sterile quarantine, what
singular self wouldn’t I breach for a do-over,

to once again slog through fecundity’s gross mess.
There’s no cruelest month. I won’t ascribe to that,
and—can I get a half hallelujah—not
every gone thing will rise again. If there’s to be some new start

I can’t choose to neglect how this whole rebirth thing works: Someone
help bury my dead god parts, or at least throw them in the sea.