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  • William Iemma

Wildflowers and Bruises

Perhaps a child’s blackberry-stained overalls

or a butterfly emerging from its cocoon,

stretching its wings in a field of lavender and dreams.


Tired, bleary eyes and cheap hair dyes.

Concert lights illuminating the smile of a late best friend.

Or the birthstone they always wore around their neck.


Or maybe the crumpled post-it notes

held tightly within a girl’s folder, mangled

with ink-stained poems for a lover.


A stripe on brazen flags of protest and Pride.

Those fearful ribcage bruises and fresh grape juices.

The wilting orchids mourning atop a stranger’s grave.


Heartburn medication, arrested asphyxiation.

Washed-up seashells and wine-stains on a wedding dress.

The torn-up handmade quilt and pressed lilac bouquets.


A sunset, dancing about a now-empty bedroom.

The faint moonlight glowing above roadside wildflowers.


Celestial bodies, uncaring and unchanged, drifting, distant

and deadly - like blooms of cosmic jellyfish.


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