I am sick, Mom.

I am so sick that I convinced myself

I’d been reincarnated as a glass sculpture, 

abstract and unmoving, against the pale blue 

hydrangeas at the butterfly gardens today.

I am too sick for the gardens, Mom.

You took me there to forget myself, I know, 

to feel—for a fleeting moment—less hostage 

of my mind and more dragonfly surfing

the lilypond. But nothing ever becomes

of your worthy endeavors and I am fated 

to be the dead among the living, the girl lying

facedown in the grass, praying for the grave.

Take me home, Mom.

I am sorry that I cannot grow,

that I am not a wild, blooming thing

capable of being swayed by summer air

and wanting nothing more than to live.

Mine are the roots that cannot clutch, Mom—

and maybe I am far too sick to stay.

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