April

Finches, gray and red ones, at the nursing home—the chicks
huddled at the top of the cage. You wanted to keep them
with you. 

Not life or death, something in-between, these weeks after you 
died. I feel you with me all the time, and am drawn by presences 
and signs. 

The pigeons on Broadway—they lift off suddenly—lead 
me to the park where I stand and watch the horses. I float from 
work to home. Flowers bloom in Central Park; in the apartment 
a shuddering of light from the Yahrzeit candle. 

Then, catching sight of you—running to be with you—you are
calm, distant. And life resumes.

a shy foal
   watching
under cherry trees

HERMINE MEINHARD

Hermine Meinhard’s second collection of poems, Nights Moving Through the House, is forthcoming from Tupelo Press. Her first book, Bright Turquoise Umbrella, also published by Tupelo, was a finalist for the Poetry Society of America’s Norma Farber First Book Award. Learn more at herminemeinhard.com.