Sweet Alyssum

She filled her living room with flowers
like they would give her new air to breathe.
I kicked the dirt like it would sing to me
if I tugged hard enough at the roots of soul
or of dandelions or morning glory impersonators
or, I don't know, maybe at my own feet buried
in the mud. We really never met. I knew her,
she didn't know me, and that's the way she liked it.
Alone in her house, I imagine she let bees
amble in and out the holes in the window-screens,
taking the scent of roses and sweet peas
on their soft bellies in their circular paths.
Something about the smell outside ate at me,
like I could almost touch the flowers, tangible,
but buried in the withered smell of fresh funeral
wreaths—left for the week after the green ground
forgives the emptiness and starts to creep in.
Suddenly with her and never with her; never touched
and never told that sunshine isn't just the here and now.


A semi-stream-of-consciousness piece from a few nights ago—they always seem a little better after leaving them alone.