Dating : chrysanthemums

I left my chrysanthemums on the table for weeks

next to Stevie’s Mirage and the other vinyl, some still covered in their native plastic

day after day, I watched the dried petals fall, picking them up gingerly,

little flower bones, brittle to the touch

knowing that the last step after death is dust.

I spent the winter with cheap merlot and imagined I was at my grandparents’ kitchen table again cutting paper snowflakes

always one clip too close to the edge.

I found solace in the scent of evergreen candles and burnt matches and thought about places out West I have never been to

wondering why I am drawn to everything ephemeral

especially the shadows I could never catch.

And then there was the man on the train, clutching wilted tulips in the dead of the New York winter

even if I did learn to bloom in the sun, would I find it here with grey skies?

and how could I ever bloom while chasing a shadow?

He ascends the steps of the station, while my eyes follow the tulips,

“I’ll save you,” I want to scream

But who am I to save anything or anyone, when I struggle to save myself?

I don’t think about the wilted tulips as the man discards them next to my broken bottles on 1st avenue, jagged like the peaks of skyscrapers

strangers’ footsteps and city grime camouflage my river of red merlot better than I camouflage my heart

but neither reach a doorstep other than my own

and I can replace what is ephemeral, I tell myself.

I circumvent shadows and follow the aroma of the earth as it fights for clarity against the bus soot and the billowing clouds of cigarette smoke,

the chrysanthemums in the grocery store look brighter today and the wine is always consistent.