Echinacea, bee balm, aster. Trumpet vine
I watch your mother bend to prune, water
sluicing silver from the hose
— another morning
you will never see. Summer solstice: dragonflies flare
the unpetalled rose. 6 a.m.
& already
she’s breaking down, hose flung to the sidewalk
where it snakes & pulses in a steady
keening glitter, both hands to her face. That much
I can give you of these hours.
That much only.
Fist & blossom forged by salt, trellising
your wounded helixes against our days,
tell us how to live
for we are shades, facing
caged the chastening sun. Our eyes
are scorched & lidless. We cannot bear your light.
Less Than 1%: Surviving My Stillborn 