By Benjamin Harnett
Everything you think you know
about some flowers
is wrong,
is what this bouquet seems to say,
as we feed it to the compost
on the fifth day (should I
have trimmed the stalks
to let fresh water better fill
the wilting blooms
is something I ask myself,
but it’s too late).
What are some flowers
to the starling
picking insects for her hatchlings
from between the blooms
(the ranunculus, violet to begin with
have crumpled, almost black,
as if the time has burned
them, as if time
was a fire—it is
) what should I say
to some flowers in their tomb,
but I am sorry of my need;
that the price of your beauty
was that you never
go to seed.
about some flowers
is wrong,
is what this bouquet seems to say,
as we feed it to the compost
on the fifth day (should I
have trimmed the stalks
to let fresh water better fill
the wilting blooms
is something I ask myself,
but it’s too late).
What are some flowers
to the starling
picking insects for her hatchlings
from between the blooms
(the ranunculus, violet to begin with
have crumpled, almost black,
as if the time has burned
them, as if time
was a fire—it is
) what should I say
to some flowers in their tomb,
but I am sorry of my need;
that the price of your beauty
was that you never
go to seed.
Benjamin Harnett is a poet, fiction writer, historian, digital engineer, and union organizer. His work has appeared recently in Poet Lore, Entropy, the Evansville Review, Moon City Review, and at Maudlin House. His short-story “Delivery” was Longform’s Story of the Week; he was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize in Poetry; and has been nominated for a Pushcart. He lives in Beacon, NY with his wife Toni and their collection of eccentric pets. He works for The New York Times.