Perennial Carry one half cup of death, shards of bone, bits of skin, a scorched vessel. Carry pink and red camellias shedding organs, barely alive, dust-colored at the edges. Carry the downy feathered bird who fell from the nest then Carry the empty home of woven yarns, bed with feathers sifting gravity to dress the hollow bowl. Carry fire, burned hands that sieve through burdened hands leaving the bone soup. Carry the bitter sulfurous root. Carry half an antidote to atone for father below the etched stone, scatter here the solemn cup like pollen sneezing the solitary season. Carry drops of dew to baste union of two. Carry soon mother’s last spasm as maxim: don’t live(die) among old people. Carry a rose, snug bud longing for youth to fruit. Carry the spade of soil and compost, knead sun for onions and lettuces, cut in fat for hungry worms. Carry spring rain, aroma of scallions, mud, and filtered sun to stir into stew. Carry another half cup, an offering softer for her, to season ...
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.