Magnolias line the driveway.
When they blossom, I am
outside, barefoot,
waiting to bruise.
I learned to fear the things more lovely
than me.
I learned to hate the things I fear.
I learned to cope is to tame
and to tame is to prune.
See how the branches fall on concrete.
How wild things look fragile indoors.
How tenderness is lost in wilting.
My mother only smooths my hair
when she is upset with me.
I read an essay on the aesthetics of
relinquishment, which is to say:
we want to make things pretty
before we give up on them.