Terrible Blooms. Melissa Stein

ink would fill the ridge compressed

      in wood—those cells—compressed

      for good—my own, what I was beaten for.

      I never learned to play the violin.

      I never learned what I was beaten for.

      At Easter brushing watercolor on crayon—

      what soaked into the egg’s white skin

      and what resisted—beading there—

      It’s possible to envy wax.

      Sometimes I drew around the mark.

      The red would fade, the blue would stay.

      Blue shape, blue flower

      yellow took. Then everything went in.

      Thanksgiving

      Swan folding its head

      into its wing. That snow—

      falling into the water. My friend’s

      daughter in the car seat,

      sleeping. The water is ice.

      The plow doing its job

      along the night roads.

      Night roads doing their job

      of being dark, and slippery.

      The crisp perfection of an envelope.

      The blank perfection of a sheet.

      The snow on the windshield

      a tunnel of wings

      my friend is driving through.