she transcends
in order to awaken
in order to accept
take in, subscribe to
the bitter tea, the remedy
for her conjoined history
at once logic and fantasy
the tall clock ticks and a gentle
grandmotherly ghost
purses her lips
it’s not time she wants to alter
not the way she can float
up and down the aisles
of the open market, fresh kale
and plump radishes in her blue bag
free samples of sweet dried peach
lingering on her tongue
she likes, appreciates, admires, enjoys
thrills at, relishes the wafted hours
but the rational realm
must also endure
what to cook each night
and when to fold the laundry
these tasks conflict with imagery
there is nothing symbolic about
the crease in his pant leg, the folded
towels left strewn on a sofa
the crimson roses bleeding out
of their vase
she musters her memory, recalls
the rise and fall of her once supple
frame, the imaginary ecstasy
of what appeared true and trims
the ends of the tulips, replaces
the roses with wide open purple
orange, purple, orange
allows their cellulose stems
into her day
