Chrysanthemums
When is a good time to throw them away? Last I touched the stems they were slimy, as if a protective layer had disintegrated in the vase; the water murks green faster each time I change it, the soaked smell of decay fills the room. I hold on as a head falls to fill color onto the center table, yellowing atop book piles and blue coasters under the still vibrant ray florets, sturdy petals, pinks and purples. Their resilience makes me want to keep them out, I’d like to say, to not tamper with their resolve, but can’t deny my desire to witness them wilt, and being unable to find the seam between the two; or if it matters. There is no telling if flowers are the image of gratitude, or if they are its lifespan. Which of the two deaths is dignity anyway: Fruit flies dancing their funeral dance as the incense of bacteria escapes to the kitchen, or trusting memory’s gloss to erase tossing the flowers into the trash, the muffled crashing of their fall, to preserve the penultimate image? For a while now it’s felt like something is being measured in me. If each day I keep them is resistance, then is it resistance to comfort or vanity? This late in the day the sun angles past fallen petals to the foot of the vase and no answer is enough.
Hatching
From
nothing
black rose
then a
lumin
-ous web
spread
on its
surface
The egg
beg
-an
crack
-ing
Inside
(reluctantly)
pushed out
a wind
-ow
then an
-other
Each
egg
shell
(shel
-ter)
fell in
-tense light
beamed
in
Eyes
un
-ad
-justed
to world
Wings
(heavy)
unused
to
unison
Maybe
to dodge
(dive
then re
-turn) branches
is a plea
-sure
in the
future
Maybe song
-birds wait
obs
-cured in foli
-age
to repro
-ache careless
travelers
I wanted
to con
-ceal myself
with
-in Gravity
was sin
-king me
in place
Moving
can hold
living
and (no
-thing else)
can even
feel
its weight
(Oh god
I am as
heavy
as the
sky
Zubair Siddiqui is a poet from Karachi, Pakistan. They are currently pursuing an MFA at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Their work has appeared in Quarterly West and The Offing.