Almost April

Abstract

Almost April Max Schleicher (bio) From what I know about fireit's almost April and a false summerhides inside the airport bombing.True that April has a will for aftermath.Flowers tilt, luggage tags melt, ceiling tilebreaches in round bays where sea howls thrashthe police line, and tired officers cry holdyour breath to find how long it takes to speakand not to laugh. Critics say architectureis the last art and first occasion for attack. Almost April strips a lightness from its lackof sleep. Stockyard sky washes its feet.Molly, Brian, Aleesha, Jim, and Iare out. Ice the color of a screenmixes in the mint. Glass reeks like skin.Two dozen dead cry the waiter's look.Unbound, his St. Sebastian taps the order in. Fire will lift three times undrowned beforeit lifts a final time: April at the service door.The elevator rises up the ligatureof the wrist, crooks, and drowns a final time.I've heard it put like this: the rush of oxygenwas the in-the-beginning for bomband wrist. I don't see it that way.In the beginning was the word of Johnfrom work, Aleesha, Jim. [End Page 60] Max Schleicher Max Schleicher's poems have appeared in Mid American Review, Prelude, Zocalo Public Square, and the Manchester Review. His work has been anthologized in 'New Poetry from the Midwest.' He works as a digital marketer and volunteers as a teacher and program host at the Recyclery, a bicycle non-profit dedicated to making cycling more accessible in Chicago. Copyright © 2019 University of Wisconsin Board of Regents