HAVE I NOT SUNG OF THE CARDINAL FLOWER?

by Suzanne S. Rancourt

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?