I turned into a bird-footed woman,
a naked night orphan. Did I tell you?
I tear a green bloom from the poisonous
stinking hellebore. Grief finds me
on the streets of Sicklerville.
Remember your teacher saying
you colored wrong, that flowers
aren’t green? Teachers so often
make mistakes, moving your commas,
taking away your balloon.
I become dust in a dry arroyo,
accepting unstoppable slippage
and then perfect stillness. But
greenness wakes me. I find water—
a mirror I can see through.
Big God gets smaller, more human,
nodding at me and fluffing up flowers.
There is an answer—green
bell blooms I crush in my fingers,
releasing the stink of decay.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 2.
Barbara Daniels’s most recent book, Talk to the Lioness, was published by Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. Her poetry has appeared in Main Street Rag, Free State Review, Philadelphia Stories, and many other journals. She received four fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.
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