Terrible Blooms. Melissa Stein
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ink would fill the ridge compressed
in wood—those cells—compressed
for good—my own, what I was beaten for.
I never learned to play the violin.
I never learned what I was beaten for.
At Easter brushing watercolor on crayon—
what soaked into the egg’s white skin
and what resisted—beading there—
It’s possible to envy wax.
Sometimes I drew around the mark.
The red would fade, the blue would stay.
Blue shape, blue flower
yellow took. Then everything went in.
Thanksgiving
Swan folding its head
into its wing. That snow—
falling into the water. My friend’s
daughter in the car seat,
sleeping. The water is ice.
The plow doing its job
along the night roads.
Night roads doing their job
of being dark, and slippery.
The crisp perfection of an envelope.
The blank perfection of a sheet.
The snow on the windshield
a tunnel of wings
my friend is driving through.
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