Published on: 2/26/2015
The Widow and the Flowers

We wanted you to have these,
they told me
after burying you,
and handing me diverse bouquets
of flowers,

and I think about the trade
of you for flowers,
what they'll do
other than throw up dirt
and smile at me for drinks.

Will the nasturtiums
fill your armchair with new life?
Will the chrysanthemums
turn toward me as I talk?
Will the narcissus shave
his stigma in your mirror?
And will the sunflower
surround me with his girth?

"No, you are useless,"
I pronounce to their sweet faces
in a row
that keep on smiling
indifferent and bright.

But when the sun sets,
I arrange them
on the shelf above our bed
over your absence
and my slumber, keeping watch.

And in my dreams,
some revelation
flames in petal-thin array,
some life springs up from us
in flowers,
after mourning and decay.

You skip the grave for resurrection,
I skip life in your pursuit.
Our lifeless bones subside,
then rise up in a flower.