I think there are flowers in our dna,
a petunia or pansy. My mother and
her mother and her mother before her.
Flowers. Cars. Mouths.
The smell of sweetness blows through the car.
"Lilacs," she identifies them. I never know
the type of flower based on smell. I have
no experience in floral shops, nothing
besides being 6 and visiting.
I only know that strange sickness of
roses, the powdery, inexplicable scent
of bloody petals pressed against noses.
On a trip to the hardware store,
we take the dog because I worry
about the darkness creeping on
his right side. His greying ear
like a sail against the wind.
He strains out the window and I worry
about his safety. I tug on his leash
and wonder if he feels restricted.
I loosen my fingers against his
collar but his smile does not
change. I worry so much
that he is not getting what he needs
but I never stop to ask...
We talk about weeks of pregnancy.
I try to imagine a thumb-sized
fetus growing inside her stomach,
try to imagine her as anyone else
than a bratty child hiding behind
curtains. Maybe, bratty isn't right.
The seeds I've planted create
tiny spicy leaves or sticky
heavy buds. And I wish I
could create something more,
like a life or a novel. I want to
want to live. I want to want again.
I want to grow flowers where my
heart used to be.