My quiet rage of flowers
bloomed as I stood by

and gave it nothing but
the weak blue of my eye,

and how I cursed to see
those vain stems reach so high.

The day it hung its heads
I begged it not to die:

I fed it all my dirt
and took it to my bed

but woke at dawn and grieved
to find its essence spread

across my pillowcase
in clots of petal-red.


Jacqueline Saphra