I remember the schoolgirl days
when Sister Anne led us out in rows of
blue and white
                 [mirrored in
                 the Dutchware my father painted with
                 quick, uniform strokes]
to the school garden,
pointed hands to plant the
violets.

We breathed their air,
colonies of their gold dust
                 settled in our lungs; sometimes
we carved out twin plantlets
to grow in our window.

And for all those years
I never saw the flaking autumn nights
when Sister Anne stooped,
nunnery cast behind a bush;
crushed a violet stem between
2nd and
               3rd fingers
lit one end
smoked her eyes
                                blue.

dirt creased into your knees, bruises beaten through

bones. callouses split open

on the splintering post of the shovel.



whistling grass thrives in these tears;

you're growing a

wild and twisting meadow.



his grave is hidden.

these are the days of headaches
of calloused grips from writing out the square root of x, y, a million and ten
and erasing, revising
double-checking with a strung-out mind.
these are the nights of skim-milk dreams
with romance [gone sour]
with magic [tricks and mirrors]
with money [down the drain]
and all hours are the same
[all hours are the same]

and we wake, rinse our hair
paste on faces that say Ready to Learn
and work our fingers
numb and
so
tired

all in the name of wishing
to peel off twenties from the paycheck
and slide [folded neatly in
one thick ***] under the edge of
the carpet for something
sweet.