Garden Center

14 3 3


Garden Center

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...



Am I?


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.

Misunderstood. Confused.

Never-had-a-chance.


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. 



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