If I could, I would tell you how your daughter tended to you
for sixty years after your petals were ground down to their oils. How she tried, in vain, to pluck your thorns from the base of her palms. You filled every vase on every table, but she never mentioned Jewish Harlem, Drobytsky Yar, how you put your only boy in a box, for a war, or no reason at all. how long it was autumn afterwards. all your sisters who dug their own graves, shot in the back by some nazi swine. their spines, curved slightly to the right just like yours, and your daughter’s- just like mine. In the end, your daughter’s limp was so bad she became a half foot shorter on one side. In the end, she saw your face again in the petals. In the end, they buried the children alive to save the bullets.
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Sarah DestinSarah Destin is currently pursuing an MFA at the University of Washington, where she also teaches. She is originally from Saratoga, CA and attended Hamilton College in upstate New York for her undergrad, but now lives in Seattle. Her work has recently appeared in Hobart, Santa Clara Review, [minor] literatures and Birds Piled Loosely. |