Tell me snow is falling on the willows now, fat, full, unhurried,
for our bald neighbor-boy sleeps, his dark body beneath
a blanket knit brilliantly blue, his body wilted with
neuroblastoma. Here on the couch, Emma holds his head

while I wonder at what’s sent from above, what we’d believe
drifts down during these months of ice, so far north we need
Easter to end winter for us—not Eostre, Teutonic myth,
vernal equinox; not eggs, red-iris bunnies, beribboned

sweets. Tell me what comes next: tires spinning, marrow
aspirating, gladiolus whispering when, when, Wednesday
ashing our brows and, for each, some coruscating stretch, most

Fridays not so good after all. Last week he told his mum, I get a new
body if I go to heaven. Tell me it’s coming soon, Pascha Sunday,
that, as they lift, our arms will ache, will awaken, with all we’ve lost.