A friend went to Columbia and brought me back flowers.
I keep them in the back of my notebook.
I use them as good luck.
It took this long for me to think on their history–
I want to know if they were plucked from the side
Of the street or if they lived watching children
Play at the park. Maybe they stood watching sunsets,
Natarajasan, yoga at the beach
Straddling the line where shells meet grass.
And then, when they were picked, were they placed
Carefully into a pocket? Did they find the pages
Of some little-known book? How long did it take them to die?
They aren’t alive now because of me– my secret–
I requested the death of other living beings–
I was Belle, just wanting petals from somewhere far away.
A simple request,
Small enough to be lost or forgotten,
Remembered, loved still, made the marrow of my words.