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Bluebells
by Lauren SingerWe boil bluebells
down to tender petals in
the deep stockpot and open
all the windows in the kitchen.
We fill the air with potpourri and
drink our flowers seeped in hot rum,
blowing our dank breaths into each other
to build back the lives that we've lost to a terrible sadness.
We turn the music up
as loud as we can stomach it,
twirling around until our heads whirl dizzy and light.
The effect is the same as it was when we were small:
Like the ballerina in the music box,
all liveliness and grace;
a familiar comfort much like coming home.
And though we know what happens when the music stops,
(the box snaps shut and tragic,
the darkness swallows everything whole)
the room still smells so promising.
there's no need to collapse into the cold;
we will wind the key until tomorrow.
Besides,
the bluebells are boiled down to fragrant dust
and the record hasn't skipped but once. 10/05/2015 Posted on 10/05/2015
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 10/13/15 at 11:11 PM Nicely done. I like this bluebell recipe a lot, the kitchen scene, the mingling of the dank breaths, the hopeful lingering aroma in the face of sadness. There is something very inviting about those first two lines. "we will wind the key until tomorrow" - love that. |
| Posted by Ken Harnisch on 10/15/15 at 02:34 AM Lyrical in its depiction of an unspoken tragedy...and the description of the bluebells and the line Kristina noted, "we will wind the key until tomorrow" are both sublimely poetic. |
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