Marilyn Burel

Procreation of Narcissus

In this family

bed of compost

and manure,

bulbs multiply

clump together

too long.

When blossoms

are cut, stems bleed

sap---clouding even

the widest crystal vase.

If only

we had been daisies,

Mother,

we might have seen

our reflections

clearly.

 

 

 Legacy  

            1970

 

I pretend to know it all

including how to prune

the row of red roses I inherited

from the previous owner of our house.

My unsharpened sheers

crush stems, wound canes.

One stunted bush develops lesions,

stem canker, crown gall.

My neighbor tends his blossoms

like children neatly groomed and fed.

 

 

            1990

 

When my daughter comes to visit,

I iron embroidered pillowcases,

bring her coffee in bed.

Each morning I prepare a silver tray,

put sweet and skinny---her name

for pink-packaged aspartame---

in a delicate crystal bowl.

I pick black-spotted leaves

from a dewy rose,

place the anorexic stem in a bud vase.

 

 

            2006

 

I cut all the roses.

Ignoring thorns, I wrap

blooms in damp paper towels,

give them out at Mother's funeral.

Fresh from a treatment center,

my frail daughter stands

beneath the grave-side tent

and sings Amazing Grace.

We place the roses on the casket

of our seventy-pound root.