I read some kinds of flowers,
crushed, are used to stain
the fingernails of girls;
that if the color stays
till winter, it means
they’ll find their love.
I never under a full moon
breathed the name of someone
whose love I wanted, nor looked
in the mirror at midnight
to catch sight of his face.
I walked the dark streets once,
I remember: a child growing
in my belly, my heart
no longer sure
of promises I’d made.
I knocked on the doors
of friends who took me in
and fed me, who said
nothing that I didn’t
need to hear.
When I went home
to take up my life again,
that kindness stayed
long past winter, past
the bloom that faded
from my hands.


In response to Via Negativa: Investor.

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