I am standing at the corner of February as I consider my hands.
You read the letter I addressed to your neighbor;
I wiggled my eyebrows and you snorted.
Later, you pretended to sleep and I
crept into the kitchen to pour
a glass of water.
With your eyes still closed,
you commanded my return.
I know because the creases of
your forehead were unchanged.
"Spell a word on my arm," I whispered.
In summer, you traced "butterfly" and "love."
By winter, it was a stupid game
and I was just a stupid girl.
"Do you know what my hands look like?"
But you were asleep this time,
and now I was the one pretending.
April is not at all the cruelest month.