Danielle Chapman discusses this poem with our critic, Anthony Domestico, on the extended segment of The Commonweal Podcast.
A bird, undeterred, tries to squeak
juice from April ice
as crocuses wince
behind black snow
though through the window
I wade into yellow
warmth as if into the aural form
vision has been tunneling toward—
tigered lemon flutes
and, past the nauseated pain,
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