Rainbows have no place in poems

Some days it is harder to love you
than others. Easter is over and done,
blossoms of bright azalea and snow-
white dogwood popping out around corners
like promises, but there are still so many crosses.
Afternoon thunderstorms rinse away
pollencoats under slaten sunlight, and you
point to the sky. Rainbows have no place in poems,
I think, wondering if happy endings are things
of myth, what secrets you still keep
as we lay beat to beat at day’s dying. My arms,
aching and taxed, reach with hesitance
in the darkness. I sleep drugged, dreaming
of escape routes, of a heart not so leaden to bear.

Dear poet,

i learned a new word today,
and the earth smells like a fresh wound
where tiny waves lick the riverbanks,
catastrophizing early spring.

sometimes the guilt is gone for a moment,
and eternities blunted by the marks
of sharp scissors. your questions
i carve into the shape of april:

if we shine lights on the moon,
is the starglow indifferent?
if we make dents in the mattress,
does that make this just

another lust poem?