She will leave the world
as she came into it: quietly
like the flower you plucked from its vase, left
on the counter for two weeks, overwatered, withered
to brown sludge. Nobody noticed
until it started to melt
into the granite, sticky like toffee and stinking
of sweet decay, a reminder
that nothing is more beautiful than
spider legs and purple toes
or an invisible woman.
Love
Evocative! The subject seems stationary, but it leaps all over the place. It is a flower calling out to the writer, the writer calling out to the flower, a woman calling out to a woman, a sense of identity struggling to be more authentic–wow! a dreamcatcher!