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(5) They grow in the nursery
by Meghan HelmichI stared past the french doors
at the neighbor's window box
of chrysanthemums,
those orange explosions,
and touched my belly.
My empty womb says many things.
It tells me that I can never be
the wife he wants,
and that I am more like the Texas desert
where we fell in love
than the Pacific
where we tried to build on waves.
We have this conversation
on mornings when you sleep in,
the flowers and I. 11/10/2011 Posted on 11/10/2011
Copyright © 2024 Meghan Helmich
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Sal Haefling on 11/10/11 at 09:04 PM Gosh, this is brilliant work. |
| Posted by Ava Blu on 11/10/11 at 09:08 PM What Sal said. I love this. |
| Posted by Frankie Sanchez on 11/10/11 at 10:53 PM I'm beside myself. (Frankie, did you read what I just read? Yeah.) These words, in this order, brilliant. |
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