I pinned those wilting flowers to the wall
And a month later
I still smile when I see them

We'll see what December brings

My dad’s unwilting enthusiasm
does little to reduce my anxiety
actually quite augments it
as I try not to hit the pavement

I am only 7 but feel very responsible
not only for the things I do,
like cutting the roses from the garden
and having my mum get mad

but also for the things I cannot do
like grabbing the handlebars assuredly
and keeping the bike under me
trying to perform some kind of conjuring act

Lowering the seat does help, feet now firmly on the ground
with loose elbows and a light grip on the handlebars
I close my eyes and, lo and behold, now I am a ballerina
swirling around like in a satin-lined jewelry box

My reverie is soon interrupted by my dad’s gentle voice
I tell him I did the splits, even touched my toes
“Seems like you don’ t wanna ride,” he says
with eyes of blue, a hint of a smile

I can still hear his voice in my ears
“Don’t try to do things you don’t like
just because anyone can do them”

Is there a death
Or a corpse among us
With the unwilting power
To flower
In face

To transform
Remorse’s course
And not stand in place

With footprints sure
On the edge of obscure

But not a tip toe in to six
And deep
To unshovel the ashes
From out of the heap

A noose who’d unravel
After judges gavel
A careless hood that might show
Sweet hangman’s face

O’ face please lie
Tell me I might not die
Tell me I edge ever still
Towards my infancy

Will my mirror to crack
I will gather her back
Puzzle pieced
And closer to thee