flowers for ann
by Beth Gilson
i’m not sure if i want to plant a garden for you,
in my memory,
in my mind.
there are seedlings spread out
each one a memory of you.
if i gathered the seedlings together,
it would become a ground for wanting,
the soil never quite rich enough
to grow a life worth harvesting,
a lack of sustenance and a bounty of disappointment.
i want to love you unconditionally.
i want to bring you bouquets of vibrant flowers,
put them on the kitchen island while we brew a pot of coffee.
we sit at the kitchen table,
fingers running over the tiles,
the sun streaming over our hands.
the furrow in my brow has deepened since you last saw me.
the sun savors it with pride,
showing you that i can furrow my brow and make it a life,
that age is not a curse.
you ask me who i am dating.
we finally talk about sex and the city.
you laugh at how carrie calls squirrels rats with better outfits.
i’m a carrie/samantha,
while i don’t know if you would consider yourself so bold,
i think that you are the same.
i bring you to the garden behind the garage,
the coffee maker sputters and drips.
i show you the part of the garden where you are still alive.
if you look in the center of the hydrangeas,
stick your nose in
and let the sweet,
pungent flavor get to your head,
you can breathe again.
i want to love you with grace and forgiveness.
i want to envelop you in warmth.
i want to tell you i do understand.
i know that the sun did not burn bright for you for a long time.
you lay down amidst the flowers,
so careful not to damage them with the weight of that which you carry.
your eyes crinkle as you smile and it is bright.
you look up at me and say you can finally feel the sun.
i hold that warmth on my shoulders,
my cheeks,
in the constant ache in my chest.
i will be your sun so your garden can grow
in my memory,
at home.
Beth Gilson (they/she) is a queer writer living in Brooklyn, NY. They enjoy saying hi to every dog they see and line dancing. They can be found on Instagram at @bethwritespoems.
