I had never practiced it—
the childhood art of dipping,

of patience—holding
the wire circle steady
for white to turn wine

and not just a runny pink—
a period’s end. But now

dying Easter eggs,
vinegar soaked fingers grasp
a perfect sky blue

before it turns rain—a bruised,
overworked watercolor.

I wanted to give
her life—readied the cradle
all last winter but

now we eat—tongues taking flight—
without waiting for the air

to sap the remains
of that wet, acidic tack
shifting to our skin

spring green or jacaranda
purple. Thumbs smudge a bright red

then scuff baby pink
against the slippery, cool white
flesh that never was.

We stroll down the drive—footprints
between patches of grey slush,

my gloved fist clenched tight—
your hand a perfect dove’s wing
folding around me.

My fingernails robin red
beneath this thin, wooly guise—

a finch in the hand—
what a strange, fluttering thing
whose heartbeat rages.