THIS FLOWER DIES IN THE WINTER
You and I crawl through the tunnel of this mountain, trying to
find a place where our bodies fit just right. After two wrong turns you
stop and look at me. I never did get tired of those eyes. I pretend to swoon but
I know better. These eyes get me nowhere with you. You’d rather marry the dark
than give into the sun.
Maybe it was between the moment when I first cried and the one where I broke
out in hives. The edges around a deep, colorful bruise — you know, the
yellow parts — that’s where you and I live. I’ve made a home out
of it. Decorated it with the fear I call my sister.
So it goes. I kneel beside you, hoping the smell of me brings you to life. The
smell of wet lavenders in the summer. Your eyes do not open
and I fake surprise. Counterfeit words on a cold night seem to be our pastime.
Prayers will not make the trees know less. They will not turn this golden girl
brown. And your words, no matter how masked they are, will not
change the direction of the wind. This is how the summer dies.
Grace Carson is located in Denver, and is an undergraduate senior and writer at the University of Denver. She is the current executive editor of the Clarion.