Flowers
During the day I am loud and sharp, a cacophony of clanging cups and bitching over every single thing on the floor. I imagine they think of me whirling through their rooms, the great Queen Bee, the sound of dishwashers and washing machines pulsating from the end fibers of my robe. I imagine them imagining me, 30 years from now and laughing, like my sister and brothers and I do, Talking about how pinched-faced and miserable i was. My middle child asks to sit in my lap and I look around like there is a shortage of love and I’m giving her too much. I offer her up a small real estate of knee and she worms her way onto it, defying me not to give in to smelling her hair. And at night I sit. A mad woman who no one knows and I try to write something fantastical about love. But all i can think of is my hard body refusing hers Refusing and resenting her right to ask me for it. What happened? I sit here at the table as open as a broken plate and I search myself for answers. What dark ink of matrilineality has drawn its border around me? Am I to never give them what I never had? Is that the story I am living? What was the purpose? Where is the growth? Fuck the dishes. Grab her. Grab her face in your hands and tell her Tell her how sorry and how beautiful and how sweet. Tell her the things you know she needs to hear. Tell her how at night, you hover gently over them Buzzing back and forth over each of them, Your flowers. Listening to their breath Bending down to kiss their heads Crying out for forgiveness Atoning for your day.
C. Dryer
Posted May 31, 2022, 1:06 AM UTC · edited