April Poem by Adelaide Lii

It is snowing
even though we all thought spring had sprung
up from the depths of our bookshelves
and onto our laps.

We write gluttony on our arms;
grocery lists and movie titles like
public affirmations of our souls.

It doesn’t even matter that we’ve misplaced
whatever it was we planted in our most hushed hours
of late night television and humming along
to the most static of voices on our aching (aching) backs.

Of memorizing tin roofs like crunching numbers and
trying not to think about daddy’s warmth long long gone,
pasted to that office by the harbor,  
by the cellphone tower and matchbox warehouses.  

Of trying not to think about our clean (clean) skin
(more empty than clean.)

Eventually, we forget which colors are primary and
which are born from brushes and
steady hands and
moments of passion
like surrogate babies.