dandelions.

you stand in the middle of the kitchen

because your mother said it was easier,

said it was lighter without the weight of

a braid thick as the bread your

grandma used to knead back and forth

on her wooden table. your grandpa

made that table when your mother

still ran around in long

hair tangled with weeds she still

believed were flowers. there

were five chairs then, she tells you they

were crooked.

misshapen like the scar on your arm

from falling off the willow the

seventh summer you lived. the branches

pulled the sky to the earth,

dirt cracked your wrist, but

you were lucky. you were lucky,

your daddy said

to only have the breath stolen from

your lungs for a moment. that

moment of grasping for

air never left you, still, and

you

stand in the middle of the kitchen

crying as, in one snip, the past your

waist strands of your hair swish.

near your bare feet and she's wrong

it's not

lighter.

you finger the sudden cut and peek

in the chipped mirror, you look older.

and now

it's too late to pretend you won't

ever grow up, too

late to still call dandelions

flowers.