The Last Bone Pink Peony
I stop to listen to a crinkle stepping out
of the curtain as you sleep, as summer
wilts through the open window
and your belly swells to the rhythm
of two clocks, one near, one far.
In the face of disaster, you tell me
there are no violins, no panthers,
no paintings of peonies in the forest.
Too many passed openings, too many
eyes closing at night to hear
too many rainy lullabies. In the smallness
of trying too hard, too much
is given up: the testimonial
of accuracy, the fundamental flower.
This lesser majesty seeks out a ballad,
something generous, something
wicked, less fine than a toothbrush,
less exact than a fingerprint.
Petals falling to the ground reverse
the spiral of growth but still find
symmetry on the brick walk.
I seek the last bone pink peony,
proof of stillness,
the luckiness of sleep.
Amy Nawrocki is the author of five collections of poetry, including Four Blue Eggs and Reconnaissance. Her most recent work is The Comet's Tail: A Memoir of No Memory published by Little Bound Books. She teaches English at the University of Bridgeport and lives in Hamden, Connecticut. Visit her at http://amynawrocki.org.
7/4/2018 07:25:12 pm
My jaw literally dropped at this poem. All that is outside the painting, all that is inside, Phenomenal.
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