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
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


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