It’s hard so hard to get specific.
No one wants to wait
while you try to recall words
you really need to explain a problem,
a fear, a flower.
You always end up generalizing.
“It’s pink,” you say,
but you known in your heart
the cut peony is fuchsia,
lightening bolts of white
passing through its petals, exciting it to life,
like some gorgeous Frankenstein.
Rivets and screws unnecessary,
it rises simply from immersion.
Who knew a little tap water
would keep it alive so long –
no, not so long.
Ten days and three hours, to be exact,
and I might be able to tell you the minutes,
were you to give me another few seconds.
But no one wants to wait.
So I’ll keep the missing moments
to myself, hold them close, like something I birthed,
maybe my own monster, a detailed devil
hiding in a bland blanket,
the kind they give orphans or opioid babies,
requiring hired hands to hug them.
It’s okay, my beloved.
When no one’s looking,
I’ll embroider your name –