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.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
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.
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