Because I hated what winter, cruel and astonishing,

required of me. In the red snow, I picture white irises

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that detonate in my sleep. I don’t actually know what

they sound like; I trust you. For centuries, I exiled myself

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to this bed, painted on the walls the flowers plum blossom,

lily, limonium. At night, I stare at the square of a woman

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I stole from my father’s wallet. I tuck myself into concrete.

In my dreams, a snowstorm photocopies a field of faces.

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Blue and brilliant flashes of light. I pluck off their petals

around the apartment, as if all these adversaries, too,

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will explode without me knowing. Springtime and so

I return home to my mother. On the coffee table,

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above the streets laced in black ice, she concentrates

on the thousand pieces of a botanical jigsaw puzzle.

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It’s incomplete. Algae and wildflowers void of parts

and holding the hot tea she spilled everywhere

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between those green bodies. Because hunger stirred

in my stomach, small and violent, begging to be held.

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Come on. It wants a name. I wonder if you loved me more

before I had a name. I always loved easier than I let on.