The Dead Things
Milkweed grew, grew heavy,
top-heavy, toppled, toppled down,
pods pale green, shut eyes.
Pokeweed grew, grew berries,
pale green berries darkening
into wine-colored globes of stain,
pulled up, pulled out
of earth by other hands.
And my own hands hung, pale,
sleeping bats at the ends
of my arms, sleeping soundless
and unknowing—as sunflowers
grew, somewhere, out of sight,
grew tall, stalk-strong, till they
bowed in a vase, six stems
in a vase, some gold, some white,
gold with brown centers, white
with gold, their leaves a flourish.
I woke my hands, my quiet flutterers—
Here, these humble heads, spirals of shine.
Before they fall, before wrinkle and fade,
before you forget you held a wild heaven,
let them live for a moment.
GILLIAN CUMMINGS is the author of The Owl Was a Baker’s Daughter, winner of the 2018 Colorado Prize for Poetry, and My Dim Aviary, winner of the 2015 Hudson Prize from Black Lawrence Press. Read more.
First published in The Shy Yellow (Dharma Pine Editions).