this morning when I heard your words when you opened the door not to apologize was that the peonies I bought for eight ninety-nine at Trader Joe’s were refusing to open locked like angry fists so tightly turned into themselves they'd forgotten how to dance with cheap chrysanthemums What I meant to ask when I forgot your words but still felt their throttle was why after being chopped—contained in crystal teeming with leaves—sugar—scorn— should their last act be to unravel as if they must reveal the bright beauty of fissure that kind curly center possible even when burdened even when clasped behind the kitchen sink— a perennial species that wants but has never stretched beyond the past? What I mean to say: there is a spoiling sweetness an unblossoming in the massive window of just letting light breach every damn part.
Pam Sinicrope served as an editor for Howling Bird Press and is an MFA candidate at Augsburg University. She is a senior poetry editor for RockPaperPoem. Some of her poems are forthcoming or found in Rogue Agent, Spillway, The Night Heron Barks, Aethlon, Literary Mama, and 3 Elements Review. Pam lives in Rochester, MN. She has a doctorate in Public Health and engages in research to eliminate health disparities with a focus on cancer prevention.
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