Here is a poem I wrote in early April:





How should I hold the long thin flower?

Down by my side, like it’s a drink,

a straight arm and my head cocked down

leaning back.

The green stem and yellow petals tossed onto the papers on my desk

considering just for a moment to place it in water,

I leave it.

A memento mori.

And I’ll watch the thin wrinkled stem’s sheath

retreat, like a snake’s skin.

The bright base of the stem will withering,

become dry and cracked.

My memory searches for the last moment:

Shopping for flowers to put in the backyard,

hacking down the daisies in some tall grass in Maine with my brother…

Letting something die,

like after the memory of ashes and my teacher giving me flowers in fifth grade.

She loved her students like the children she could have had.

Little, blue and yellow; they were by the window to devour sunlight, but no one watered them.

They’d have died anyway…they don’t last forever…

A severe reminder I can see and touch, everyday,

This time on purpose—

Not to do it again.


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