Bloom is the blandest
sound for something
proliferating out of control
and yet they insist on using it,
as if the water were a field
of tulips, just-dusted
of their petal-clinging soil,
presentable and perfect,
just in time for the hoarding of people
clicking open doors and stepping
out of their cars and into the morning,
just to see these flowers, grown
once again despite the needs
of the soil, pushed up through the dirt,
so someone could see them and say,
“Now, I know why they murdered
each other for these,” as they sip
watered-down espresso
from single-use plastic,
just before throwing it away,
as if any mincing of syllables
could make them forget
their mission,
as if any call to our garden
could make them believe
we’re here to do anything but kill.
Haley Bossé (they/them) is a queer, non-binary writer and maker of things you can touch with your hands. Haley’s poetry has been published by magazines and journals including Strange Horizons, Nimrod International Journal, and voidspace. Haley’s work is forthcoming from Paranoid Tree, Fifth Wheel Press, Partially Shy, Sinister Wisdom, and Grist. TWITTER
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