vergissmeinnicht

by Amy Wolstenholme

your name

became a dandelion clock haemorrhaging
             time. seeds
in my teeth I spit out centuries, let them
blossom in cracked concrete. this
is what it means to bleed, to burst
into flower / explode colour, the way
a poppy seed knows it will one day be
             red.
torn from sleep. each wish that I make
is a dandelion seed, and by that I mean

your name.

became a sunflower. stellated
galaxy coiling stars. fibonacci
expanding 1 1   2     3                   5
like a grenade, spooling life
backwards until you clutch only petals,
white as teeth. throw away this confetti
and rewind, but we only see
your wrist-watch amongst the flowers,
still marking time.

I never expected to find

your name

like this. carved into a fallen tree.
counting rings, you must have worked out
how long a life should be. it tells me
how weathered you must be, by now,
how grown over, how shot through
with flowers. it colours

your name

forget-me-not

and the sun reads it once.
then gently, carefully,
(oh so               beautifully
                          slowly) moves on.