Root-bound
She must have known
the day she brought the pale
tulips home from a cold
crowded market, in pots ready
to burst, and placed them on her
dresser where they sat and stared
blank-faced out the bedroom
window, that death grew.
Regardless,
she thought she could spare
their last sweet breaths
from hungry masses; from fingers
feeding on the passing beauties,
from siblings who'd grip
the fragile heads
like corners of old pillows
dragged behind.
The warm-air blanket
wrapped around the stemflutes
must have choked the buds;
they opened wide
like panicked lungs
desperate to swallow
the sky cut off by glass,
then shrunk like linen
thrown into a dryer.
When she took them out again,
their petals looked like starved stems:
peaceful, folded with each other,
as if to hold their lack
of unbound light,
as if they loved the lack,
as if it were the garden.
C.J. Sage
* * *
about the poem:
"I wrote 'Root-bound' as my own response to an exercise I'd made up
for a group of participants in a poetry group I hosted. I don't recall the
details of that particular exercise anymore, but it was generally to write
a poem which juxtaposed something rooted in the ground -- literally or
metaphorically -- with something that spends its time in the air. As you
can see (though I tried to follow my own instructions as far as possible),
what issued forth for me went a bit off track -- reminding me that part of
the art is being willing to relinquish absolute control of the piece once
it begins to grow itself."
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