Content warning: This poem contains brief, non-graphic mentions of sexual harassment and road rage.
My skin glowed
like dew on evening grass,
as I plucked a pink camellia from an overflowing array,
by an efflorescent abode
I know well.
It is a garden
where shells are deeply buried,
and cactus flowers grow in carefully packed soil.
I tucked the blossom behind my ear,
and sauntered down the street,
humming to myself.
“Hey sexy!”
Someone yelled from a passing car.
“What are you up to?” I glanced at them
long enough to scowl
And kept walking.
I buttoned my sweater
more.
I heard a memory,
whispering in the breeze.
You handled that with grace. You have a quiet strength.
I rolled my eyes, and kept walking.
I am respected for accepting comments
with a smile, I thought to myself.
Crossing the street,
my mind
was increasingly alight, like birthday candles on pizza.
I walked through a barbecue
and the cara-cara sun captured me —
orange juice.
Passing headlights revealed
too much of my rosy summer cheeks.
A pink petal
rolled down my body.
Clenching my hand shut, I held onto it;
it was the only warm thing.
My shoulders grew cold.
Like someone snapped my day into night.
Metallic rain shimmered on the pavement,
growing brighter —
I heard a loud screech
and whipped my head around to see an
escalade with tinted windows roaring towards me —
towards the footpath.
My eyes
gleamed like flickering candles —
I didn’t want to be seen like this.
A single petal fell through my hair, blowing
in the wind.
I saw
my original kin,
asleep in their beds —
chocolate cake with
pink frosting—
As headlights increased
like a halo around me, I closed my eyes,
slowing my heartbeat. And I let my floral dress
carry me —
All
five foot eight inches of my organza body
crash-landed in a
boxwood hedge.
The future
roared past, an inch from
my soft shoulders. My breath came
in shallow waves.
As
the rain hit the asphalt,
as I lay there shaking,
I was quiet.
I walked
several blocks home
in the dark. I wrote to a friend
but got no reply as I stared at the ceiling.
Bolting the door a second time, I crumpled
myself like a piece
of paper.
Several weeks later,
my face covered in dew droplets in the morning,
the sun kissed me through the iridescent window. And she said,
“Silence is not always a virtue.
You can unravel this paper.”
I stepped outside.
I breathed in the sounds of a morning.
As pink strands crossed my face, I allowed my fears to fade.
I let myself cry. The first time this year. I breathed out, feeling the warm sun.
And I thought about how there are neurons in our heart.
Trying to listen; pay attention to that.
I looked down.
The paper was gone from my hands, and in my palms
were pink flower petals.
And I let them go.