Clover Hill

April sits just below your ribcage
like a paperweight. There is something
worth mourning in the way he carries
himself — hunched and graceless.

He is lily white; a laudable man,
port-wine fingertips stained flush
against the sheets. Wax lips curl
around your name. Knife-edged,
unyielding. This year, he will
bleed for you.

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