January Lilies
Smashed lilies
of January
do not foretell
The mad lemon infused
beauty of July
We are both
breathing shallow
heavy boot on our neck
We grasp for clues
in the winter dawn
All that is left of the lily
a few straight rod stalks
blanched to sand color
easy to break
All that is left of me
is buried near my ribs
I can count my bones
but I cannot read
my interior
Myriad of velvet curtains
and doors, shut boxes
and rivers wild above me
How does the lily know how to come home?
Clusters of her leaves emerge
in hard soil of March
Stay their place
through the delicate dogwood petals,
daffodil’s urgency and fanfare,
delphinium’s triumphant appearance,
even the apple blossoms
come and flutter downward
before much from lily
She works alone
concentrating on her green clusters
getting those spears upward
Some late July night
one rod like stem leans
straight to the moon
holding a golden message
tiers of lemon petals
wrapped tightly
into some dream
Lily opens her petals
each flower
has just one day
to make a
sun like life
her lemon scent
stopping all travelers
How will I call myself home
from the forest of troubles?
I do not think I possess any gold
like the lily
unsure whether there are any petals
left within me to unfurl
it is no matter
for in this moment
we are equals
bent and broken
barely breathing
Margarita Bonifaz published “Fairy Toast” at age 7, in The Phoenix. During her teaching career she wrote in the margins. Two stories were published in Peregrine. Recently, her novel is out of the drawer and she is writing stories and poems. She has a poem published in Lime Square Poets.