Amaryllis
All the trees, breaking, under the coating ice, limbs
heavy as coffins. A bulb in clay pot refuses its inner
life without invitation. In the subzero, the mind resolves
itself from dream: I fed everything but the teeth, sharp, under sleep.
Seedling, bulb, rooted storage container, compressor of light.
We all walk around with tiny caged traumas, fluttering—I was told
to find a lover whose damage matches mine. Breaking, breaking,
the wind snaps the trees, the trees... I cross continents, lift
my arms & float upward & in dreaming, I traverse timelines, move
beyond the beyond, but you, potted plant, rest still & regard the freeze.
I watch as you push forth, opening, then the blossom, then shrivel.
& even so I withhold water, portion out your need, control the sun.
SARAH AUDSLEY is the author of Landlock X (Texas Review Press). Read more.