Jane Zwart

Flower Wars

During the war, victory gardens.
Also roses, also coffins 
that looked like window boxes 
on their way into the ground. 

After the war, a slant reenactment
of what we had done: flaming this
and fire that, thistle, loosestrife,
fuschia dripping their innards.

At the periphery, an homage
to the collateral damage:
black-eyed Susans, profusions
of bachelor’s buttons, a gust

of baby’s breath. The truth is
in the dusk, we couldn’t tell
where the bleeding heart ended
and the angel's fishing rod began.

Then, fall, and everything went—
forget-me-nots and poppies,
even the rue—though many 
were perennials, we already knew.

Of Natural Causes

So much of the time, there was no need
for intervention. The bleeding stopped.
The fever broke. We choked, and that
was rebuke enough: the plug of banana
came free; it landed back on the tongue. 

So much of the time, everything worked.
We didn’t think about breathing
or the spleen, and for decades no one,
hands stacked on our breastbones, 
shoved our hearts back into common time.

Almost always, the body knew what to do,
so usually we spluttered but did not drown.
Usually passed the kidney stone. 
Only fair, then, to tell more than the end—
mostly we lived, and lived of natural causes.

Back to Issue XII…