Poet's Desk: Flora crece de
Flora crece de
In Flora, Indiana went four little girls.
What we know:
In the corner at the baseboard by the door remain a generous trace of accelerants, rumors fly in so small a town, a mother escaped while her children did not, and soon the people can no longer know what investigators translate from the ash.
What we do not know:
The birthplace of a flame, the songs the eldest sang to her sisters, if a soft hand burned on a doorknob. In November,
Snow may have slept on the lawn,
Could’ve touched the bare feet of a weeping mother,
As neighbors watched. Far beneath that ice
Spring’s seeds wait, unaware they will be made martyrs
Once they bloom. Hydrangeas die every winter to be
Born again of their remains: sweet stench of rotten petals.
The life cycle of a flower is a spell cast
from the inside of a house.
Four little girls landed separately on the
same tree, and climbed together
too high to
Four little girls drawn away into dust
do not know who prays they die
and are reborn again