Broken by names of your flowers;
I fell
into a place where light can’t touch
the wounds you left me.
Your father’s garden needs weeding, but
where do we go from this?
Am I the only one to pull them up,
pluck the courage to pluck?
I hear you, screaming
again, of flowers and poison
pollen,
but I am afraid I cannot bend the wind
in a different direction this time.