#131

celandine1
Flowers by Ryan Van Winkle

The lights go out
in the rest of the house.

Mom snores
on the couch.

I’ve never noticed her snore.

And I don’t want to be annoyed by it.
But somehow
I am.

And I want to buy her flowers
to make up
for being annoyed
even though she’s asleep.

I want to buy her flowers

because she waddles now. This is new.
It takes her longer to cross in front
of the TV screen and
the old man’s tongue is a switch; slaps her quick.

My mother is snoring
and a girl calls me.
An ex girl. A recent one.
And this reminds me of how girls,
how women,
come and go.

This woman put fingers in my ass and she
let me.

And we thought this was love and we tried
to keep it while I was distant.

And I want to buy her flowers
because she calls to care and
because there is a new girl
and the woman who rings
does not know about her.

My mother wakes up and I
burden her with no truth,
no flowers. She is tired
because she went to work, did the taxes,
cooked and cleaned while I
hid all day in my high school room

like there was not a snoring world, like
decades aren’t murderers, like flowers
could make people live

and love forever.

 
 
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