In his crisp and taut collection April No Longer Comes, poet Yucheng Tao evokes fragile, transitory moments of elegance that seem to fade away even as the speakers appreciate them. 

A speaker recollects a museum visit with his now-deceased sister to see a Rothko exhibit. He later imagines a blue horse carrying her from her casket “to a spring which never ends.” Spring, and specifically the month of April, show up later in the collection in some very short pieces on butterfly wings and in “Fever,” a longer piece on a speaker’s recovery from illness. The winter imagery of snow and mist in many other pieces (“Snow,” “We,” “The Glory of the Snow”) becomes a counterpoint, burying or shrouding beauty in a way that is itself graceful. 

Tension and a subtle melancholy permeate many of Tao’s works, even those otherwise vibrant and full of life. In the first poem, “The Fading Light of Dead April,” about a couple enjoying a pizza dinner at a restaurant, Tao shows us the delicate bubbles in clear soda, yet ends lines with “bitterness” and “cutting off the clarity,” leaving readers with confusion and angst. In “The Glory of the Snow,” the speaker watches a beautiful woman dance, with picturesque imagery of her red lips against the white mounds of flakes, but then, ‘a clumsy dancer,’ she falls to the ground. 

Death makes an appearance throughout the collection, directly in “Mr. Raven” and elsewhere as an aspect of our existence. In “Arrival Before the Rose Dream Ends,” a man eats out with his girlfriend in Portland, Oregon, the city of roses and the shadow of Mount St. Helens’ past eruption, and dreams of the volcano when he passes away in his sleep. In “Mr. Raven,” the speaker’s ticket to the afterlife “is written in the age spots on his hands.” Even an inanimate scarecrow (“The Scarecrow”) becomes less alive as bored teenagers and the weather wear down its body. 

Coupled with the many natural images in the collection, mortality here seems as natural as the change of the seasons, whether characters choose to drift away peacefully or beg for more time. As Tao says in “We,” “Things shift, change, and transform: birth, death, and beyond.” 

Our hopes, dreams, and identities here can be as fragile as our physical bodies. In “Where,” a speaker searches a rose garden looking in vain for a particular flower, comparing himself to Adam and Eve cast out of Eden when the blossom remains out of sight. The protagonist in “Untitled” puts on the face of a clown to cover his emptiness after his reflection, his identity, falls all around him with the shards of a broken mirror. The very last piece in the collection, “Mary’s Secret,” shares the story of a little girl rescued by loving people from an abusive situation, who attempted to bring spring into her heart. 

The short lines and reserved, non-grandiose language of the poems in “April No Longer Comes” ground the sentiments in reality and make the motifs of the book more universal. Many readers can relate to “lost Aprils,” times beautiful yet delicate, now fading into memory.

Yucheng Tao’s April No Longer Comes is out now from Alien Buddha Press and available here.