Chrysanthemums
Flowers are in bloom, in mass profusion, vertiginously rioting, filling in all the empty spaces, all the emptiness. I relate them to you in more ways than I can reckon. I walk, walk tall and warm-breathing, almost atavistic and heavily perspiring. Truth is, the flowers fatigue me—their colors, their perfume, much too much too much. I’m spinning; I’m faint; short of breath. My fingers go numb. Revivify me, sun. Make me want for water gently, on my knees, on the ground. Meanwhile your smart flowers flourish, but your petals blunt my spirit. I agree the day is a gold dust gift, not to be dismissed. But let me sin by not accepting it.
Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto, Canada. He is the author of five books, including The Mountie At Niagara Falls (Anvil Press), an illustrated collection of microfiction.
Previous: Peycho Kanev • Issue 17 • Next: Kuo Zhang
The Mantle 