A Violence I Can Sing
By Lucia Galloway
My palms are open, cupped and fleshy,
moist—the petals of peonies that fall away
from the tight bud at their center.
My soul, an iris still sheathed in its bud,
a knot that angles the stem slightly
where it is freed from blade-like leaves.
Flowering is wildness even in the garden.
The mute cacophony of hollyhocks and freesia—
their riot of trumpets and peal of bells
chiming for something else entirely.
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