In my dream, I pick flowers
to cover my nakedness.
Put flowers on bare skin, they fall off.
Glue flowers on paper, they don’t stick,
the paper tears and falls off.
I try to wear flowers,
it doesn’t work.
All day long this flower dream stalks me.
I feel incomplete.
Put on cicada shrieks that dim my ears.
Put on clouds to sink in gray.
Put on light but it fades to night.
The cancer cells push out the flowers,
weeds are taking over.
Ingrid Bruck lives in Amish country in Pennsylvania, a landscape that inhabits her writing. She’s a retired library director who dedicates herself to writing short forms and short poems. Last year was one of firsts – first-time grandmother, first time published. Current work appears in Unbroken Journal, Rat’s Ass Review, W.I.S.H. and Entropy. You can find her published work at: http://www.ingridbruck.com.