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rehearsal.

Wallflower Whimsy

Flower of Life, by Frida Kahlo Flower of Life, by Frida Kahlo

I.

When I looked

at her

how often

I saw the coffin,

how often

she lay

with a stillness

so lovely

I knew her fate

as clearly as

the sun and moon’s.

With a stillness

so lovely as

she lay in satin,

her youth

suspended the

time all around us.

How often

I’d rehearsed

her funeral

when flowers

willfully planted

and sweetly tended

were ripped

from young roots,

left to wither on

hardening ground

in the place

where mirrors

see out

and rain boils

to steam in

blue-hot starlight

before reaching

a thirsty earth.

Her flowers withered

and grew,

withered and grew,

comforting lies

convinced the

dedicated that

she’d always

grow back.

She’d always be there

somewhere,

withering and growing,

smiling a kind of smile

that gives you

something to

believe in,

dancing a dance

that makes you

feel free

just watching,

singing a…

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