I’m conjuring all the weightless floating facts of one memorable April past and beckoning them to to land for a moment in a coherent thought.
Yes, like T.S. Eliot did in 1922, with his poem that begins with the burial of the dead, Waste Land, I am thinking April is the cruelest month.
April, I was walking up a snowy Brooklyn hill seven months pregnant and going to put in an apartment application. Continue reading