The Last of Us
When we were young, we were immortal. Always eager to try something new, even if it was dangerous or could kill us. We lived our lives with an unmatched vibrancy only equal to each other: fearless, carefree, and inquisitive. We had an entire life ahead of us. We were untouchable—a rat pack, born together, never leaving each other’s sides except to chase our dreams, and we always had each other’s backs except when we slept.
Heath, the most musically talented of us, shared a room with Sigmund, who should have been an engineer with his gifts of foresight and planning. Tasha, our only sister, self-appointed stylist, and inspiring chef, shared her room with Samuel, who hated his first name, and after many years of badgering us about it eventually forced us to call him S. He was the most sensitive of the pack, and the most allergy stricken. He spent most of his early summers avoiding the outside during peak pollen season, which dampened it for all of us, but with the advent of better medication, he started to venture out as we grew up. Then there was I, Touré, the one who avoided wool, hated handshakes but longed for a hug from time to time. I had my room, and kind of preferred it that way, as I needed more space than the rest of them to grow and to feel. I was deeply complicated, but more emotionally mature than the others, and when push came to shove, I easily had the thickest skin of the group. I kept all of us together throughout the good times, but especially the difficult ones. Even during the Great White Hurricane in the winter of '88 when I lost a part of myself to frostbite, it was I who kept everyone relaxed in the hospital despite the excruciating pain of losing two and a half fingers.
We grew up differently than most, and I am grateful for it. I want to say that we were lucky, yet I never did feel the asphalt of a public schoolyard, so the conclusiveness in such a statement would be simply negligent. I can say that growing up attending school from home, had many perks, most of which would have never been available with a free education from the state. We taught ourselves many days when our parents were away. Our substitute was the forest. Many of our classroom hours were spent outside on the grass, and in the leaves, among the wildest parts of life, where we learned about the trees and the insects. We learned about ourselves. The woods stirred up our imaginations into a whirlwind of bursting creativity, untamed wonder, and unmatchable confidence.
Heath enjoyed listening to the birds every morning until lunch while Tasha ate every berry in sight to ruin hers. Frequently, she left little for the rest of us to enjoy, and the majority that remained were found in the discard pile made up mostly of the poisonous ones Sigmund warned her about. When he was medicated, S, did his best to have a good time for the sake of the group and eventually grew to love the flowers. He always described his fondness for the delicate fragrances hidden deep in their pedals. His favorite, was a white gardenia because it reminded him of the fresh oranges from Florida, a place he always wanted to visit, but sadly never did. Sigmund was usually on his back observing everything above us. He called out new shapes in the clouds and confirmed the identities of Heath's birds for him when they flew over. He enjoyed making up stories with his unique "cloud characters" that took on impossible odds, covered vast distances, and searched for love in all the right places. Entertained for hours, we never forgot his imaginative stories.
I learned a little differently than the rest. My body became a vessel through which I felt everything inside and out. When the breeze whipped through my hair I was reminded of freedom, and to flow like the wind instead of against it. When a ladybug crawled across my bare feet, I became mindful of how even the tiniest things can make an impressive impact. The rough bark of the oaks that lined our driveway felt like a hardened cloak of armor with a highly important secret to protect. I imagined they hid decades of stories in their creases, and I often wondered what the trees would share, if they could speak. I compared those trees to humans, who similarly have protective layers around them hindering their ability to share their authentic selves. I wondered how the world would be if everyone were more open and honest. My favorite feeling though, was the mountain water from Beaver Creek. I always splashed it into my face whenever we passed through, even when it was its coldest. It was brimming with its trademarked healing powers, always cooling my soul to the bones. I often dreamed of jumping in a lake filled with that same water, and for some reason, I wanted to drink my way through it, while I swam fully submerged, as if I would heal from the inside out or become one with its energy. Those days, when it was simplest when we did not need to care about the dangers of the world around us, and the sun determined our bedtimes, were among the best years of our lives.
It's cliche to say, but we really did grow up fast, continuing to seek all that the world offered up to us, and before we knew it a man’s voice began announcing our names from a clipboard among the few other homeschoolers attending the Class of '77. That day, standing on the football field of the Middlebury Union High School, our black caps were flung high into the sky reaching for Sigmund clouds, and our childhood floated away just like them. It wasn't long before we each ventured out to see the world in our ways with our diplomas tightly gripped in our hands. Like most siblings, we too began spending less time together, as we each chased our separate interests into adulthood.
As usual, our over-achieving sister found her calling first. Tasha was talented in almost everything, but had a particular knack for the ability to decorate, and settled on becoming an interior designer. Though she tried, she never made it to become a top chef, like in the shows she religiously followed, but she will always go down as the top chef of the family. Heath was right behind her with his choice, which wasn't hard for him as he naturally dove headfirst into music. Though he never got famous for it, he had an amazing ear for talent and did very well for himself as a sound mixer and music producer locally. Unlike the others, Sigmund never went to school but attended the university of life in its place. After a few years traveling abroad, he settled on becoming a self-taught photographer with an eye for everything beautiful, especially a girl. He immediately fell in love with his first model, Iris, and they quickly eloped in Paris in the summer of '82. After the wedding, we lost him to her in the first couple of years of their relationship, as she was his entire focus, and had hold of his heart. Then there was S. He developed a nose for solving crimes, and after five years at Norwich University in VT, he graduated with a degree in criminology, and became a police officer immediately after. Despite his younger, more sensitive years, he quickly grew into himself as an audacious bloodhound, and just like Sigmund, but without the girl, he married the force. I took the longest path and perhaps the hardest, but eventually got around to figuring it all out after many soul-searching and somewhat questionable years. I would rather not explain the details, but the spiritual realm reached out and grabbed me one day, and I knew that I was meant to become a massage therapist with plans to later add a yoga instructor to my resume. I started as a spiritual advisor first because I wanted to touch the minds, bodies, and spirits of the whole world. It suited my life perfectly and made me whole. From those early days on we chased our careers, followed our hearts, some of us found love, but we all experienced fulfilling lives.
Like all who came before us, and all who would eventually follow behind, the years had piled on, and our clocks ticked closer to midnight in the eldest part of our lives.
Though we had always kept in touch, usually visiting a couple of times a year for holidays and birthdays, we eventually found ourselves further apart than we had ever imagined. I cannot attest to when, but somewhere along the road of life there was a day of singularity for me. I finally looked over my shoulder to examine where my footsteps had traveled and where they were heading. After a while, I concluded that we were not perpetual beings, but instead, without question we all were heading into the cosmos to each become a tiny new star. That day of reflection came just in time, and because of it, our visits happened more frequently, especially as the five of us soon started fading away. One after another, we began saying goodbye to each other, which was something that had never crossed our minds we would have to endure. Something Sigmund or even S. could not have predicted. We thought we would live forever, we thought we would die together. We never anticipated having to attend each other’s funerals, but we did.
Heath passed first. His death was sudden, but we found out months later, that he was hiding his decline from everyone, and instead had been over-compensating for years. As it is commonplace to say, I wish I had known earlier, so I could have spent more time with him before he left us. In retrospect, he never was a man who wanted special attention, especially for a disability. So, he died his way, and for that, I appreciate and love him more. The next to leave us was Sigmund. A huge surprise again, and a loss that tore the three of us apart the most. He seemed to most invincible to us, and we never truly recovered after his passing. He was such a stable leader in the group, never to complain about the appointed position he had no say in, but he was the one that we all relied upon to help guide us forward and lead the way. Without him, we had lost sight of ourselves, quickly becoming lost. It was only two years later during the peak of the flu season, when I had to bury Tasha and S., myself. It happened within the same month of December. What was once my favorite time of the year had quickly become a month of mourning and pain, and thus stayed that way for every subsequent year after that I survived without them. It seemed to rain all thirty-one days for them as if the world stopped to cry for their loss. I wept an additional thirty-one after realizing my family, my brothers, and my sister were all gone for good.
All that is left, after my siblings have vanished into the ether, is I, an empty shell of a man who is held together by a thick membrane of connective tissue, loose skin, and faint memories helping to glue everything in place. My bedsheets have me wrapped into a tightly wound death burrito with an extra layer of expired meat, soggy lettuce, and no Picante sauce inside. Each day, I long for the soft touches of the hospice nurse during her hourly rounds. It's the only touch I have left. I don't know her name, but I know she hums a special tune that makes my skin dance a little longer. It reminds me of Heath and his melodies and I find pleasure in the warmth it brings me. I have no one else to share my life with, nor stories to burden onto them in hopes they would learn a valuable lesson or never forget the life that my siblings and I had lived. I realize now that when I used to observe old people talking so much about their lives, they were reliving their favorite memories, but they also were trying to preserve them in someone's mind, so after they pass they hopefully would be remembered for just one more day.
My engine is on idle, and my exhaust fumes are creeping heavily throughout the room. I know the oxygen will eventually displace from here leaving only toxic fumes, but I would never know when it happens. So, I wait. I lay here as fearless as I once was, as we all were so long ago, and I am left only with the feelings of what my memories used to be. Without knowing what lies beyond that closed door that awaits my turning hand, I eagerly invite what will soon be the final chapter of my life, death. As if it is the final song in my concerto of life, the sold-out crowd of thousands of hairs on my skin reach up like extended arms, eagerly rising to meet the distant echoes of my siblings who sing beside me on the same stage. Their voices vibrate intensely through my body. I know they are here, and a calmness fills me. I grin with hope. The rat pack will soon be whole again. Their presence invites me onward; to leave my vessel; They soothe me as I begin the same journey they did. Similar to S.'s flowers wilting after an autumn frost; my hairs wither and flatten while my body's warmth radiates out of me. I begin to close our book of life for good, with me as the final chapter, who wrote the last words, and I place my author signature on the inside cover, for someone else to read.
Remember my kin, for they were so many things; So many experiences, and they lived with such a vibrant love for the world around us. Remember Heath for his beautiful tunes on the balcony during the summers overlooking the lake. Remember Sigmund for all of his wild quests he took his characters on, and how he was gracious enough to let us come along for the ride. Remember Tasha for she filled our hearts and our stomachs with every part of her very soul. Remember Samuel for his sensitive side, and the poems that explained it, especially when he read them to us on the days we couldn't go out because of his allergy "condition." Finally, remember me, the one who had felt the entirety of a lifetime, and barred the scars to prove it. I can only hope that I touched the lives of many, healed the hearts of a few, and inspired at least one.
I, Touré was the last of us.
©2023 Chris Sadhill
Drowning in the Wake of Bad Decisions
The most powerful entity on Earth and perhaps the known universe is the mother. Before I begin, let me give a shout out to mothers of all the other forms of life on the planet be they mammalian, reptilian, fish, or lower primate because they too are the moving, and evolving genesis of their species. However, for the sake of time, I will focus on the most advanced, dynamic, intelligent, compassionate, loving. and dangerous (when their offspring is threatened) of mothers residing here on Earth, the human mother.
Like their fellow lifeforms, human mothers are the authors of humanity, selflessly allowing the parasites growing within them to take everything needed to grow and develop to maturity. All of this happens while nurturing a love and bond that is beyond the scope of words with and for the little life growing within them. This parasitic relationship continues beyond the womb as the infant human is totally reliant on its mother for survival. Now, let it be known that a woman's life giving power isn't without burden and the responsibility of bringing new humans into the world is best described by that great student of human nature, the inspiration for the invention of spandex costumes, and the creator of the Marvel Universe, Stan Lee, "With great power comes great responsibility." Most of the time, mothers bear this responsibility with a wisdom and strength that is notably absent in their phallically equiped counterparts. However, this isn't always the case. Not every woman who possesses the power to bring human life into the world should nor should every woman want to have children. While most women are biologically capable of bringing life into the world, not all are suited to supporting and nurturing that life once it is born. This is in no way a fault as human beings are infinitely complex, adaptable, and as a result. sometimes have different roles to play as part of humanity. Because of the adaptable nature of humanity some women choose a different path in the world, a path that is equally important to the continuance of the species. This doesn't mean that the woman who chooses to be childless or feels that they are incompatable with motherhood doesn't love children or would do them harm. It simply means that whatever role they may play in humanity makes child rearing difficult, or sometimes undesirable.
Sadly, patriachal society has made becoming a mother an essential part of completing the, "Being a Successful Woman Check List." This is cruel, discriminatory, and given the current population of the world, totally antiquated and redundant. What's worse, many women who're pressured into motherhood might lack the unique set of qualities that it takes to be a good mother. This doesn't mean that they don't love their childen. It means that they were better suited to being childless. My mother is just such a woman.
My mom began life beset by mental health issues. She was given to depression, anxiety, agorophobia and coupled with the trauma of losing her dad to suicide by the age of 4 and being sexually assaulted by a family member as a 10 year old girl, she struggled to care for herself. By the time she was in highschool she was self-medicating with, nicotine, marijuana, alcohol, and amphetamines. At that point, my mom was against ever becoming a mother, but her wounds would make this VERY wise choice difficult to stay committed to.
Sadly, my mom's total lack of self-worth and feelings of abandonment stemming from the trauma she experienced as a child made her turn to anyone for affection, and men were happy to oblige her for a price. My father was just such a man and within a couple months of knowing the fresh out of bootcamp sailor my mom was pregnant with me. My dad would've been happy to board the USS Enterprise (CVN 65) as it headed for Vietnam in the waning hours of the war, leaving a bastard behind, but due to an Irish Catholic push from my dad's grandmother, my parents were married by the time I was born.
Motherhood didn't due my mom any favors two years and one positive test for a STI later, she and my dad were divorced. If EVER there was a marriage due to fail it was my parent's extended for waaaaaay too long one night stand. Unfortunately, my dad (a major asshole then and now) would be the last guy she attached herself to who worked, didn't have a criminal record, or thought that beating women was an acceptable passtime for the next decade. So, I was now being raised by a mentally ill mother who was even more deflated after being cheated on by her first husband. As can be expected given my mom's horrible character judgement my seaborne deadbeat dad would (and I'm shocked to think to this day) be the best of her penile possessing prospects. This would lead to a string of abusive relationships and two more ill conceived children.
I was almost out of highschool when my mom FINALLY admitted that she should never have had children, hadn't wanted children, and had dreamed of being the favorite aunt to her nieces and nephews. Instead, she had dragged me and my siblings through a series of violent, unhealthy relationships inflicting trauma to us along the way. Oh, she loves us, of that I have no doubt, but she wasn't capable of caring for herself let alone three little humans. The extended consequences of her actions would be experienced by her three children more than her.
Somehow, I was the lucky one. I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy by the time I was three years old. I only heard the theory regarding the cause after I became an adult. The theory was that I stroked out in utero due to exposure to moderate amounts of amphetamines, alcohol, nicotine, and psychadelics before my mom would realize she was pregnant. As an adult, I would spend some time in a mental health facility for my own depression, anxiety, and domestic violence related PTSD. Eventually I would marry WAAAAAAAY out of my league and have kiddos of my own. So, being a dad, I went back to school and became a, "Normy Drug and Alcohol Counselor," meaning a substance abuse counselor who's never been an addict. I guess I realized after my failed attempts to help my family that I wanted to help someone. My education continued until I became the first person on the maternal side of my family to earn a college degree.
My sister would be sexually assaulted before she was 14 years old and was an addicted mother of three herself by the time she was twenty. Each child was born exposed to methamphetamine, her first was born very premature at one pound thirteen ounces. The other two struggled with learning difficulties and all three suffer from various forms of mental illness. The doctor delivering her last child, fearing that she would continue having drug exposed children actually obtained early approval from Medi-Cal to offer and perform a tubligation on my sister, something that wasn't usually approved by Medi-Cal until the mother was twenty-five years old.
My brother also became addicted to methamphetamine and became quite adept at stealing cars. He's been homeless off and on his whole adult life, struggling to hold down jobs while dealing with organic mental health issues and not so organic meth induced psychosis which I believe has become permanent.
So, mothers are the most powerful entities on the planet, always have been, always will be. However, all women are powerful and becoming a mother isn't a gauge of success as a human. Women are the pinacle of human evolution, motherhood is just one thing women excel at. If you're a lady who doesn't feel like you have the mommy gene, don't sweat it. I can honestly say that for me, my siblings, my nieces and nephew's and most of all, for mom's sake, I wish she'd been able to stick with her notion that she wasn't mommy material. Fuck, considering staying with my dad, a one night stand that went waay beyond what should've been a walk of shame the next day with no further contact, and putting me up for adoption or even having an abortion my mom could've prevented a long string of tragedies. I guess the wake that forms from bad decisions sometimes drown more that just the decision maker.
Seasons of Motherhood
I can't title this as a letter, as a "Dear ____", as a painful series of sentences designed to make me reflect and feel pain. My children are cells that have not yet divided into fetuses, into little versions of myself, into generational trauma and sticky fingers that reach for an absentee mother.
I suppose this not-letter has to be abstract, because that's what my children are to me, what my relationships with my mother is - a once and future cloud that erupts into thunder when I'm asked, "Do you want children?"
There is nothing quite like dreams to keep me going, nothing quite like hope to inspire a future with a son or daughter.
Life is hard. It's a series of rejections, sickness, and bills to pay. It is a series of rock-bottoms, or maybe that's just what I've experienced.
Can I let my failures as a human being already cloud my perception of motherhood? Will my children suffer for having me as a mother, for watching me reach for something other than their love when I'm down and out, aching for a substance to heal me when family is right in front of me?
I would want more for my children. I want them to be happy, to experience life to the fullest. To hit rock bottom, and instead of bottoming out, to see it like the seasons. A spring of blossoms, rain that creates new life but does not wash away our lessons learned. A summer that does not scorch old terrain and make us want to obliterate pain, but makes generational trauma come out behind shadows; the sepia light reflecting off only what is there to be physically seen, and not just psychically felt.
I want more. I know there is life beyond pain, and I would want that for anyone, whether or not they share my DNA.
I am going to end this not-letter by saying that I am in love with life, but not in the same way a mother loves her child - in a fragmented way, in an autumn of sorrow, in a winter that lightly coats everything in snow and melts away to uncover the peace I so desperately crave for myself.
Butthole Surfers, raditude, new sprouts, German flavors, and ghost of word.
From the work here on the site, thrown over to Prose. Radio's episode 25 on YouTube, Butthole Surfers lead us into a piece with sass, followed by sprouting words of grace, into one -then two- bits of German taste on the tongue, and wrapped by a grip of a ghost with grit.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVZw1ZbauGQ
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/811875/tonight-i-could-writeoh-dammit https://www.theprose.com/post/807048/glowing-and-growing-new-sprouts-at-night
https://www.theprose.com/post/812246/german-potato-salad https://www.theprose.com/post/812228/if-you-ate-a-proper-german-crumb-cake
https://www.theprose.com/post/811880/ghosts-of-word
And, as always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
What People Don’t See
I recently submitted a rather distasteful story to the manuscripts section. Various responses were received; some puzzled, some troubled, but some understood the message behind the story, which was authentic and recalled vividly in the harshest of terms.
Don't let my grandmotherly smile fool you. My memory is a stinker. It recalls all the dirty details of my life in living color, and I, as the truth-teller of my family, must share every bit of minutiae. I have always been like this. It's a sickness, according to my mother, who prefers to let pain and embarrassing family history get moldy in the basement. Writing these events is not necessarily soul-cleansing and healing. Sometimes, it hurts to dredge these things up.
The healing comes when another abuse survivor says, "I thought I was the only one," and you both become a bit stronger.
My story described being dragged to an orgy by an abusive boyfriend. I was twenty and he was thirty-three at the time. He had total control over me. Over my body, my travel, my money, and my contact with friends and family. I remained steadfastly snarky and belligerent because that was the only freedom I had. I could go along quietly or go along with blackened eyes. I always chose the latter.
The irony of this story was that my abuser warned me not to embarrass him at the orgy because he knew the people who would be there. This would have been hysterical if it was fictional. We were going to an orgy to have unprotected sex and do drugs with perverts, but he was in fear of me saying something to embarrass him. What? How bad does someone have to be to embarrass you at an orgy?
I was not a drug taker, so, when urged to take a puff of marijuana, it hit me hard. I remember standing in the bathroom of the home we were at, thinking it was the next day, and it was all over. The rest of the evening was a blur of being passed around, like that joint, and finally, coming to with my boyfriend dragging me off the husband of his girlfriend, who accidentally ended up at the same orgy.
He wanted to humiliate me by showing me who he was cheating with. I was horrified by my first sight of female genitalia in action and repulsed when he tried to force me to join him with her. He did nothing to me at the time. But for months afterward, I was frequently reminded that I had let him down, and that was why he had to have other women.
Every time he wanted to have other women, he would first beat me so that I’d run out of the apartment to escape his fists. Then, he would be free to bring these women into our bed. I had asked for refuge from so many people in our apartment complex that, eventually, they stopped allowing me to stay with them. I was on my own with whatever I was wearing when he began hitting me — usually in the dead of Winter.
People could see the bruises and cuts. What they could not see was the constant state of anxiety I lived in. Would I have to run away tonight? Tomorrow? The night after? If I ran to a neighbor and banged on their door, would they ignore me or let me in? Not only do abused partners live with constant fight-or-flight anxiety. They live with shame. A deep, intense, burning shame that only abuse survivors understand. I spent years being ashamed of what someone else had done to me.
Friends, family, bystanders, and strangers always commented, “Why don’t you just leave?” They could never understand how completely he owned my life. I had no vehicle. I had no money, as he would scoop up my pay every night I worked. I had no friends who would take me in. No access to help, except when police were called. Then, even the police would tell me I probably wouldn’t stay away, so all they did was postpone another beating. No one ever referred me to a women’s shelter or any other kind of help.
When I attempted suicide to escape, the hospital would send me home with my abuser and enough drugs to kill a herd of elephants, which he would steal and sell. If I ever managed to escape, he promised to find me and kill me or kill my pets. He made good on that promise by running over my dog, Gus, to repay me for running for my life once when I was sure he was going to kill me.
When someone beats you regularly and saps the life out of you, you do what you’re told. If they threaten to kill you when you escape, you believe them. I’m seventy years old and still find myself getting hostile when my actions are questioned, or someone tries to prevent me from going where I’d like to go or doing what I want. Not just a little hostile, but angry, furious. Which is funny to watch, I suppose, because I’m about 4'10" tall. It's sort of like watching an angry munchkin on steroids. And, God help you if you laugh at me.
The anxiety never really goes away completely. The shame, lack of trust, and fury remain with us forever as well. These are the unseen bruises of abuse.
In Black & Gold Scroll
Here, Here!
The flame red Monarch
may be flummoxed
among the furling
or unfurling of its
Savannah flowers,
but is never deaf...
It may well be said:
the migrant Butterfly
is all eyes and ears...
Wings flapping wild
with elephant stampede...
The King of Insects Hears.
2024 APR 16
*this is a curious entomological fact
The Killing Moon, in rain, on hold, something for Belarus, and a wick ingnited in capture.
Episdode 24 weighs in with five featured pieces from five brutally talented writers. Led by Echo & The Bunnymen's famous song, these five bring their steel breath and beauty into whichever device you have for them...
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FO84K-eB6zw
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/810836/maine-in-the-rain https://www.theprose.com/post/811862/windowsill
https://www.theprose.com/post/811914/extra-hold https://www.theprose.com/post/811937/a-poem-for-the-burnt-out-belarusian-houses
https://www.theprose.com/post/811905/to-hold-a-candle
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
zeros and ones
Would you understand me better
If I spoke in binary code
If I got your attention with
Beeps and boops, and monotone speech
Would you find me interesting
If you could control me with a remote
If I was fast and flashy and eye-catching
But I'm not a machine
I'm a person
Not a perfect one
But one who tries her best
Though I don't sing in 0s and 1s
Every song is about you
But I'm fighting a screen
And I know I can't beat a machine
They are made to be perfect
I was made to be me
And sometimes thats not good enough
Your attention is more applicable
To something that doesnt ask for love back
Something that will do what it is programmed to
Something that can't prove you wrong
Something that listens to you
But I'm just human
And thats not enough
I guess
May Crowning
Dry earth splits with repulsion
There is a paradox in the crying shame that a dehydrated cell forgets how to soak
It’s a crying shame that any devil can conceive an awakening
I’m comparing swelling to an eviction
There is a paradox to—
I never wanted an open plot until one was thrust upon me
I watched an orchid blossom beneath the hem of my skirt
And I’ll tell you what
It’s in the petals unfurling that I fall in love
A tendril scrapes me clean
And, I do
I fall in love
I am the chasm
I am the crimson rush we love to forget
I am in love with the building up of an orchid
Until all I want is open plots
Twelve summers can tarnish the bed
And I’ll tell you what
A finger buds slower than an atrium
I water the blooms with a blood-letting
Next summer, there’s always next summer
And still the new orchids weep