Red
Say a phrase over and over and its
meaning sloughs off.
Sounds collide, saturating you. You go
still beneath your skin.
The girl whispered "my Dad died," and there was nothing
to breathe in the cabin.
She pulled her
treasures from her bag--a string of magician's scarves.
The red
carnation appeared, a bent and wilted thing, thumbed
with effort to
make memory last.
We mended the dangling flower-head with
gum and nail polish
knowing the fix would finish it for
good.
When she left,
she held her funereal flower tight.
Never mind how
the petals littered the ground
like the
opposite of confetti.
--first appeared in Stirring
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