I run down the hill with the flower crown.
Mother smiles and her mouth opens, but
I don’t hear a thing. My desperation to give
her the crown mutes
the world. I point to
the crown and tell
Mother, “Every flower has a meaning. Magnolia is
the pink flower, for all
the nights you waited for me
to come home.” By my bedside,
Mother stays, until my fever goes down.
But, Mother, by your bedside
in your darkest nights,
I worry that you are alone.
Perhaps I am a lone leaf.
Perhaps I lie on the cracked rubble
with skin separating like the membrane
of your cracked lips. Grooves,
decorated with dirt. They long to feel
comfort. Perhaps, from their mother trunk
they will feel grounded.
By my bedside, you sing the lullabies that
echo with each curve, each ridge, and each bump
engraved in you, revealing
your wretched rashes.
They are imperfectly carved to perfection.
Diana is a passionate writer with a deep love for poetry. Her creativity and dedication to the written word have shaped her academic and personal pursuits. Diana’s enthusiasm for poetry and storytelling fuels her desire to make an impact through writing, constantly exploring new ideas.
