by Isobel O’Hare
she seeped into the earth
reborn as iris
bloomed places within her that his violence
could not reach
sucked into her own beautiful
flimsy piece of life
she vowed never to wish for anyone’s departure
only that they be sucked
into their own beautiful
flimsy piece of life
reborn as poppy, a sleepy sort of power
the kind that lulls
a kind of tincture, a balm, a honey
made from sleepy flowers
maybe the problem is too much poppy
not enough water
she won’t put cut flowers in water
they are dead already, she says
why prolong the inevitable
she would rather be a death doula
than a Dr. Frankenstein
cutting the head off a chicken
to pump blood into its neck
it’s not pretty
hang it to dry, use dead things
for decoration
they tell me I killed a child once
it does not linger in a vase
of stagnant water in my mind