At Easter time, there is a lengthening. The light
over the Earth grows longer. The hyacinth stalks
grow taller until purple and pink nubs rupture.
Baby lengthens, too. Legs and arms and neck.
She feels herself reaching toward interstitial
space. Her head, though, is still a ball.
The kitchen smells of sulfur and vinegar.
Her stained fingers thrum Formica
tabletop. Eggs at least have a shallow end.
Something to interrupt the worry. But balls
roll forever, endless, in every direction.
You have to chase them into the street.
Sheila Squillante is the author of the collection, Beautiful Nerve (Civil Coping Mechanisms, 2016) and three chapbooks. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Indiana Review, Waxwing, Copper Nickel, Menacing Hedge, and elsewhere. She teaches in the MFA program at Chatham University where she edits The Fourth River. She is also a blog editor for Barrelhouse.