False Spring

by Shivani Kumar

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I open the windows so April can leak 
babbling nonsense into the hardwoods,

nudge its false spring incoherences 
between the parched grains. Going against 

what I know, I trust
the promise of thaw, of ease.

I hoist my hopes up for reprieve – 
the one I have been praying for.

Springtime speaks at me, even
when I do not have the words. 

I don’t know how to be direct with you
so I round the block, take the long way, avoid 

the street you live on. I imagine
you and I still smell the same wet of the earth.

I imagine a sturdy bridge extending 
us towards truths that get lost in my mouth.

Here the timber hasn’t warped
into something unrecognizable. With us,

the planks can hold the weight of words
waterlogged in my floor boards. 

I don’t want to feast on just silver memories. 
Do you remember

our bodies were crimson tulips daring 
to open their mouths wide eyed.

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Shivani Kumar is a poet from Worcester, Massachusetts. Her work is guided by her passion of connection to community and self. Her poems pull a reader into a world where they can find themselves arriving to emotions and memories that are limitless and can nurture healing in a world that often does not create the necessary time and space for such renewal. She is currently working on her debut novel that explores themes of community, belonging, autonomy, grief, and identity as a Tamil-American woman. Her work can be found in the Chicago Reader, Sixty Inches From Center, and Sarka. She resides in Chicago where you can find her at the lake.