April's Receipt

I forgot how the sky feels after the grey,

how the light can be a hammer and a nail.

I walked for three hours by the reservoir,

thinking my winter skin was thick enough to stay.

Now the sheets feel like sandpaper on my back.

Every time I turn, I hear the dry snap

of heat rising off my collarbone,

a radiating pink that mocks the thermostat.

I peel the watch back and see the evidence—

a stark, white circle of who I used to be

before I let the first Saturday of spring

carve its signature into my vanity.