by Brandon Shane

My daughter sits in a body of flowers,
the casual beauty that occurs
a few miles into the wilderness,
and it is morning in December,
none of the animals know what to do,
summertime in winter,
the blooming agenda
must be discarded
and printed again,
she is laughing like the trees
do not hold a grudge
against our home, the life cut down
for ours to flourish,
the birds calling a phone
that we cannot pick up,
the sunlight offering a tender hand,
a bit of reprieve from the displays
of wooden walls, wooden rooftops,
the truck churning down roads
running over and spitting out.
And I watch her sometimes
with lilacs between her fingers
or roses, whatever
magical thing she has ripped
from the ground, parading
the roots like some
auspicious thing.

My daughter grabs another, and another,
I smell their petals, wonderful stem of life,
dead now, gorgeous explosions, then sterile,
and she stirs for a moment, something
telling her this is wrong; I study this,
guilt lumping in her throat,
the mercy of nature
all around us.

I close my eyes and hear ritual slaughter,
chants of witches having become
wind chimes hanging in the forest,
and a gust hits me with vibrating tracks,
my daughter has pulled every flower,
she is tripping to find more,
a bouquet between her fingers,
their green blood, what’s left
wilting on the dirt, a killing field.
She fills me with happiness,
I watch as the sun glides
over her brown hair,
she is laughing, and killing
all the flowers, how precious
this moment resides
in my memory,
and how that thing
in her throat has become
voracious laughter.

Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can see his work in trampset, Chiron Review, the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Ink in Thirds, Dark Winter Lit, Prairie Home Mag, among many others. He graduated from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.