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Peter’s Flowers
Published February 13, 2024 by rlmcdermott![](https://rlmcdermott.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/img_7336-1-1.jpg?w=768)
All these
moons I’ve
painted that
bring no light–
the sun,
the stars,
the sky,
they can
not see
that I am
standing still.
These things
I dream are
dreamed for
someone else–
the bitter fruit,
the barren tree,
the songless bird
are all for me.
I wear them well
around my neck
until I cannot breathe–
I will not stay to
see them leave.
Who reads this
poem cannot
know me–
I didn’t bury
birds they
buried me.
She sang
in the bathroom–
high notes,
clear,
chaste,
contralateral.
A songbird puffing
cigarettes between breaths,
all was illegal about those years–
the teased hair,
the shaved eyebrows,
the rolled-up skirt.
Violetta everywhere,
father dying
on a red-velvet couch.
Where were the old dreams,
the dreams her parents had for her;
there was a truth to them
that she ignored–
the bottle-shaped dreams
of an alcoholic father,
the woman in the kitchen
silent for forty years
now heard for the first time,
a half-forgotten song,
snatches of melody,
lingering in her memory.
They gave her a watch
so she could know time was running out.
She listened to the ticking; rhythmic
like a song, like a poem,
an alliteration of small explosions
striking the final destination.
The days of summer and sadness,
the little girl heart beating badly,
the pills stolen from a dying father,
the butcher knife hidden in a rotting mattress,
the poems packed in a yellow suitcase–
songs saved for another day.