April 5, 2009


Reckless Wedding by Maria Flook

The house is white
as a sheet
under a bright stain.
Especially at night
when stars bleed
from mysterious heels
then wander off.

You married me
when outside
the forsythia slit
a thousand little wrists.
The deep tulip blew up
a while sidewalk.
Now I look into a mirror
and see the red burning
of a skull understanding
one thing at a time.

It's true,
I watch the lawn
fill up with yellow
whips, the willow trees
that twist
and then let go.
From underground
their roots tunnel
they want to live a life backwards.

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