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 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.
1 Comment
Betsy Mars
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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