Superbloom – Audra Puchalski

Suddenly I’m awash in flowers. In the course of my voyage

the seasons have receded—

backtracked from fall, to summer, then spring again:

the season of the superbloom. A flutter of lavender and then

explosive inflorescence: pink, white, purple, rotten liver.

They’re falling off the trees and my stupid dog

is eating them. I feel greedy, too—

wanting to consume it all

before the rain starts. The carnation of my life

opening and opening, frayed

and bright, a smudged point of color. Here come

the waterworks, and by waterworks I mean ecstasy, I mean

total pleasure in spite of capitalism, in spite of millions

of Desdemonas, in spite of fast-fashion

epaulettes. The barometer is rising—

or falling? Anyway. Grasshopper, I will cup you

in my bare hands and lift you off the road, lay your small body

in the grass and leave you once again

to your apparent fate which is to leap

continuously, to leap without a landing place,

to launch yourself into space and hope, but then who needs hope

when you have such utter irrefutable faith?

Audra Puchalski lives and dabbles in esoteric fiber arts in Oakland, California. She received an MFA in poetry from the University of Michigan.