HAVE I NOT SUNG OF THE CARDINAL FLOWER?
Have I not sung of the cardinal flower sporadically placed
along sleek blue clay river banks? Lobelia cardinalis
picked respectfully for medicine, protection, beauty
its seed pods autumnal fat for casting, for birds that carry
new life to the other side, across the river, yet, you look back
you had to take flight, traverse those waters
your warbled tones slip atop shore grass
skittered at water’s edge a foot stepping out onto shore
Have I not sung of the cardinal flower before?
Left behind, my heart acquired heft your absence imploded
proving gravitational mass in my chest. Blood red
shuriken petals, grief piercing. Have I not sung enough
in astringent chromatica - melodic betrayal - my gaze
scans this river for anomalies, you waving stiffly, perhaps
How does one prepare for this thing that rip stops
all bodily fiber – loose milkweed filament, silken tufts,
bird’s nest torn from bare breast alders?
My questions bob along guilt rippled surfaces.
Scars remain and this river, this land, tender nonetheless.
How can I sing of the cardinal flower now?