I picked you a bouquet from the garden,
red, white, and the pink grafted ones,
the hibiscus flowers you had planted,
the bushes now tall, star-studded
with buds and blooms.
When I arrived I was grateful
for something to hold on to,
even though they made my palms sweat;
I shifted them from hand to hand
rubbing the moisture onto my school skirt –
I had nothing to wear,
little girls do not own black dresses
you see.
The church was stifling, between
body heat and grief
I could not breathe
and my flowers began to wilt.
Everyone had brought you fine arrangements,
tropical, store bought, with fancy wreaths
and sashes.
I had only your hibiscuses,
limp and dying in my hot paws;
I felt ashamed of my offering.
I had forgotten that,
like us
hibiscus flowers bloom only once,
and when the sun sets
their life shrivels
and returns to earth.
I buried them in that late afternoon sun
beneath the mountain of
flowery farewells you had received.
Your hibiscus bushes still grow,
tall and untamed.
I watch them bloom
with each morning yawn.
There are no more bouquets,
I let them be.
