(with apologies to Eliot’s ghost)
by Wren Donovan
This April isn’t cruel, except
complacency is a bully. Depression
stands aside, and lets it happen. Anxiety
throws a punch or two, kicks to the gut. So
Yes, you’ll find me bruised and bent. But
my own fault, for walking down those alleys.
April offers sunlight, and fat bees
up to their knees in pollen, birds and rain and
green. My dull roots stir with hope for lilacs
and desire, to mix with all this memory.
My nerves are bad, today,
tonight. Please, let the rain return.
It’s almost May.
Wren Donovan lives in Tennessee. Her poetry appears in Emerge Literary Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Harpy Hybrid Review, Yellow Arrow Journal, The Dillydoun Review, Moist Poetry, and elsewhere in print and online. Wren also reads Tarot, practices dance meditation, and talks to cats. She lurks on twitter @WrenDonovan.
Emerge Literary Journal 