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.