She had barely blossomed into two

a purple chrysanthemum. 

The budding sounds of her voice; 

cackles soft as smoke or

scream sharp as scalpel, had gained command 

over us, like sunrise over sleep. 

When a flower dies, the garden sheds its color. See, my mother is grey, 

a statue kindled by sunrise—

cursed by a dead flower,

to burn & reform / daily, like a ritual.

Each day she raises her head to God, 

eyes, daggers aimed at the heavens ready

to tear down the curtains with her face,

a mad woman brimming 

with anger and red confidence. 

They say the evidence of grief 

on a body, are the strings of beads 

that pulls us to our origin. 

Perhaps my mother’s is a different kind.

Perhaps she is too dry to shed a leaf.

Loss is a color on the palette of life, 

a color this woman is all too familiar with. Now, this garden no longer wears the sun

in regalia, there are but three flowers left 

& the gardener / has lost all hope.

About the Author

David Solomon is a student of human anatomy in the university of Maiduguri, Nigeria. He is passionate about all things art and stans Ocean Vuong. Whenever he’s not admiring nature, he’s bopping to good music. 

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