
Wildflower
I watch television shows
where women yell
at other women. I load
wash and send emails
about degeneration. My daughter
busts through: Mommy,
watch this bunny video. I dip
into anxious sleep until it is time
to make coffee. Another black
man shot in the street. I load
the dishwasher and send texts
about the media
cycle—send group texts
about cycles.
Once I’ve wiped
clean every surface
I retrace lines,
stretch tendril
vines out
over neighbors’ lawns,
cracking brick walls,
dipping roots down
cisterns in
frenzied flight
from sunlight. Unknowable
space will fill with life’s swell
until I am stripped
unsure
how to draw breath—
how to fill,
to release,
mend my crack to fissure.
I will call all my pieces back—
crease their bright blue into
a book as a pressed wildflower
and drive to the store for milk.
1 reply on “Wildflower”
Gorgeous poem, Jen. I love the last line. I feel this.