Issue 9 – Blumenreich

Julia Blumenreich

Each Blossom

Sponge-painted in soot the sky all around
and its absence, as if from random roofs

muslin sails searching for a new world.
Strangers’ conversations take on meaning I have no

right to embrace, I don’t tell anyone,
the truth I keep interior, a white rat in the same

maze without solution yet this compulsion
today worrying my trip to Manhattan.

We climb the stairs to the Highline, orange-yellow
bushes in flower; so many times you’ve

taught me to call its name: witch hazel,
Hamamelis, the genus, “together

with fruit.,” as in the simultaneous arrival
of flowers with the maturing fruit of the previous year.

If I could, I’d inhabit this shrub or small tree wearing
each blossom with its four slender exclamations

for petals as long as I could, protecting myself
from making light of this beauty, as if I’d swallowed

the flowers to admit your presence here high
above New York there is love because of you.