by Kathleen Kirk
For the first time, I hear all the lyrics:
He scorned her before she scorned him.
I forgive myself for not hearing sooner
the hazy music under the breeze,
for not seeing sooner
in blooms of fevered pink
fringed with spilled milk
how a man wants only the hot pink blush,
not to tend the garden, as I have,
taking small tufts of weeds in my bare hands.
Day after day, pinwheels unfurl.
Who can resist the color, the sweetness?
I forgive Barbara Allen.
She let him die in his shame and love,
the way we all want to die:
in the glory of confession, hot and pink,
visited, forgiven, mourned
Copyright © 2009 by Kathleen Kirk.