My father's mother grew a garden of zinnias to divide the house from the woods: pop art tops in every color—cream, peach, royal purple, and even envy (white-green, I knew, and when the pale petals opened in early August, I thought they'd blush like an heirloom tomato, heir-loom, how strings of wine-dyed wool lay over the frame of an idea, how my cheeks look in the mirror after a run, always the wrong time of day, thunder rolling around the stadium of trees, or the sun striking the boughs with light over and over as though to plead the green right out of the leaves, or so it seems to me, too sensitive, she would say, her love scientific)—the sunburst petals a full spectrum except for the sea returning to you, blue, blue, the color appearing in language only when we could know it like a cluster of stars in the arms of another galaxy while ours spirals around a black hole, and now they grow in space, in the satellite where we live out an idea of permanence among galactic debris, acquiring stars, losing vision, the skin touching nothing, the heads little suns you watch die on the stem if you want the bloom back. Copyright © 2017 Tyler Mills. Used with permission of the author. |
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