the first day of April, the sudden lack 

of turtles at the lake, the sunken look 

on my neighbor Paula’s face. I watched her 

take down the wind chimes from her porch, 

gently placing metal rods and bells

in her driveway garbage bin, and I recalled 

the careful way my mother disposed of all the cat food— 

spooning weeks of salmon pâté down the sink, 

rinsing each metal tin before recycling—

when Saima died in the driveway. 

She moved, Paula, silently, and I recalled

our conversation last night, how I said 

I only want to see what’s right in front of me, 

to watch Paula take down her wind chimes without recalling 

white foam in the driveway

bubbling from a mouth 

still pink with sound 

on the first day of April. I walked to the lake

to see the turtles, watch them

poke their heads out from their hoods, 

but when I arrived they were all gone. 

I’d like to watch the lack of turtles 

without recalling how I laughed, actually 

laughed in the driveway, 

thinking it must’ve been some sort of 

April fool’s joke, some sort of sick

handiwork my brother pulled together with cotton balls, 

Cool Whip, a stuffed animal;

how I couldn't stop laughing

even when, suddenly, the loss sunk in.

I returned home from the lake. 

She was back

inside, Paula, and the wind chimes 

hadn’t quite fit inside the dumpster.