Wallflower
A heavy millstone
grinding wheat to flour
surfaces from childhood memory;
my senses, sandy.
Odd that the oldest memories
are by far the youngest.
Strange, that it is light
that withers us to shadows.
I've picked out your hands
from underneath stones
and brought them to my head
to help me become myself.
If I cry too little,
strange fires consume my chest.
How long will I blink back visions
of things no longer in view?
God knows in which hour of the night
flowers fall.
I can make flowers.
Seeds and soil can make flowers
The flowers are always there.
It’s the Monarchs that I miss.
Published in Indian Quarterly January 2020