12.4.11

easter, 1999.

a pot full of hard-boiled eggs, color stained hands,
a phone off its hook.
the air is thick with egg-smell, dial-tone,
that beeping sound when the cradle is empty too long;
disconnected.

the closet under the stairs is filled with board games,
but it can still (just barely) fit a beanbag and a girl of eight.
the cord for the light is in reach if you're sitting on something.
the only sound is the hum of the water heater
and the buzz of the lightbulb.

the only sound is the hum of the water heater.

tiny patches of brown-black snow that hold on through spring.
the last one in the neighborhood is in front of our house.
it leaves a tiny pile of dirt and litter at the end of the driveway;
it washes away by the end of April.

the air is thick with emptiness, dial-tone.

beep. beep. beep.
beep. beep. beep.

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