They are everywhere——those sunflowers with the coal heart center. They riot

    without speaking， huge， wet mouths caught at half-gasp， half-kiss.

    Flowers she promises I'll grow into， sweet gardener，

    long luminous¹ braids I'd climb like ladders， freckles² scattered³

    across our shoulders in a spell of pollen⁴. She's sleeping there——on that table

    with its veneer⁵ slick as a glass coffin⁶. She's fed us fiddleheads， the tine fists

    of Brussels sprouts⁷， cupcakes， even the broken song of the deer's neck. Singing.

    Flowers everywhere. In my bedroom chaste⁸ daisies and the vigilance

    of chrysanthemums⁹. Dirt under my nails， pressing my cheek to the shag rug

    with its million fingers. You could lose anything： a tooth， Barbie's shoe，

    this prayer. She loves me. She loves me not. I stare at my reflection，

    a posy of wishes. Morning glory， nightshade， tulip， rhododendron.

    In this poem I would be the Wicked Witch and she Snow White. Waiting.

    My father talks to me about their lovemaking. My mouth empty

    as a lily. I try to remember the diagram. Which is the pistil？

    Which is the stamen？ Roads of desire circle our house： Lost Nation Severance¹⁰，

    Poor Farm. Branches catch the wings of my nightgown.

    There is a crow and the smell of blackberries.