She Helped Herself to Flowers

by Farley Walker

 

Mama never saw that
neighbors' dogwood trees teared
Irlene's cheeks. Berries from cemetery
bushes redly nightmared her sleep. Pink
and yellow roses draped her in sweat.

But the kitchen table
was never undressed.

Gravel bit her toes, when
Mama forced her from the van,
her eyes sliding
doors. Irlene's watched for
traffic, witnesses to meet her
crime. No pouts, no pleas
would ease the stare, and she'd
resign, scissors in hand. Now

when Irlene comes to call, she clutches
black-eyed Susans and clover.
Daffodils, cattails, and Mama
talks about her health.

 

© 2006 Farley Walker

Farley Walker found the wine job she was looking for and moved to California. That is not to say she does not miss her family, friends, and the underrated complexity and craziness of her home state, Mississippi. Her work has been published in/on Wicked Alice Poetry Journal, Juked, Ink Pot, 4 AM Poetry Review, and others, including the first issue of Southern Gothic Online.