Wept in the garden,
swollen by sunlight—
and stepped upon
by a man carrying groceries
in from a mini-van.
Later, she would concoct tuna
casserole and call on him
to set the table—
while the violets of twilight
fasten the shutters
on her once perfect nipples—
from a honeymoon in Paris.
Every newborn sobs for this—
her unspoiled sweetness; Love’s miracle
in pearly white trickles that stain
beige camisoles, one after the other.
A life in the suburbs for a flower in bloom;
You will be cut, crushed, and pressed
until you sit upon the toilet as potpourri—
rising above the stink
of all other excrement floating beneath.
Sir Edmund had it wrong.
Violets are red, if you only bleed them