Two Tulips
Grandpa Gordy didn’t know
I was in the yard.
There was a feather.
My mom said I
should be a shaman.
Sometimes I dance.
Sometimes I speak with the dead.
I walked through grass,
disturbing countless dandelions.
Wishes scattering across the lot.
I stood in the middle of it all.
I prayed in my grandmother’s garden
for this and that and a whole lot of love.
When I opened my eyes,
I saw two tall red tulips popping through
messy grass.
The tulip is
the 11th anniversary flower.
11-11 in flower form.
I was a warrior with wishes
as my weaponry.
I was at home with hope
holding my gaze.
In the garden,
I grow wild.
Gordy can’t leave.
He didn’t plant the seeds,
but he played the music
that was a soundtrack
to the leafy color mass—
a slice of heaven.
Lulu was a fat dog. She died.
Gordy’s best friend next door died, too.
In the leaves.
Heart attack for that man— Randy.
Grandma went slowly.
And where is the stray cat?
He thinks somebody killed it.
Gordy doesn’t deal well with death.
I don’t either.
I got hit by a train
and he reminds me of Thou Shall Not Kill.
“That goes for yourself, too.”
I secretly hope the mourning man
lives forever.
That sounds cruel.
It’s cruel either way.
I will paint him flowers.