On a grey window sill, a grey vase holds
cut flowers, coral-colored tulips, the color
of my Easter dress when I was thirteen.
The dress, homemade by a nearby neighbor lady
fit a little awkward in the sleeves and across the back
a little too long to be stylish but I thought it lovely
until the pastor’s handsome son said,
“You look like a sockeye salmon.”
A comment made 65 years ago reappears
on memory’s blades, recapitulates its abrasive cargo.
“April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs
from the dead land, mixing memory and desire”