Updated: Mar 16
When you picked two
fresh gardenias, perfume
pumping, packed them
in a box to cross a continent,
kept from sun, I asked why you’d deliver
death to my doorstep. Did you expect
they’d brown-paper burst, brilliant,
singing songs of Spring?
You said you did. And never did
the story ring of anything but bruises—
of night ships and trains missed; of glasses
pink and coy but only ever worn by one—the kind
that presses lips into silent, I’m so-sorry-smiles.
I told it so I wouldn’t have to look.
ADRIANA STIMOLA is a non-fiction literary agent, mother and ever-aspiring poet. Her poetry has been featured in numerous publications, including: The Santa Clara Review, Beyond Words, Harbor Review, House Journal, Juke Joint and High Shelf Press.