Dane Leimbach

The Taste of April

When I was eight I tasted fire
In my innocent eye,
In my virgin belly.
I witnessed confusion in leaders
Mumbling their actions
Were necessary, were purposeful.
April tastes like TV
At nine in the morning
With pasted over eyes,
With a hungry stomach
Tossing acid on its tongue
Because there are children
In a big home with big brothers
Pushing steel fingers deep
In windows.
April tastes like fire;
April tastes like Waco.