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Photo: "Faraway Near" by Kimberly Cunningham



Every week I go to the grocery store and lust

for perennial bloomers. Eye pots of roses. I would give

them my home—glorious soil, and with a new-found love

and generosity, we could grow together.

The metaphor is not found here. Stay literal. Stick with me.


Up through the cracks, I’ve suspected up

through the broken glass… for some time devil

that I have been receiving, pour me

another shot [1]—digital roses.

And what’s to be done?

Sometimes these things happen; there’s love coiling at the end

of the stem, unfolding, bold bleeding leaf

by leaf, affection slides away with a gracious rush.


Of course, I want to heed the advice—o, be generous

with red yes [2] but not too generous as to be seen, noticed.

I would not want to shake, hurt, offend. I want

to be silent progenitor of all spring-kindness-deeds.

Head tilting, sideways—hands

outstretched. Only

generous when the correct lover is present. I want

to be giving my yeswords.

Nobody wants yes

words, just yet.