Pluck the Delphinium
Lauren Bush
​
from its bed, she’s sleeping
in a nest of scorpions. I had a dream

once that I could not find my way home.
My mother sat waiting in the dim blue

light of the afternoon, the shadows marching
across her weathered face – she’s mashing flowers for the dye –

the yarn’s already been spun – I was stuck in aridity:
wind whipping, sand shifting. Blinded

and weary, I could not make a sound.
The serpent at my feet slithered,

wrapping and twining itself around
my ankles, thighs, ribs, breasts,

settling finally in my heart, thick
and heavy, ever squeezing.

They put me here – flung my voice
away, clouded my vision

so I couldn’t speak, or see,
or listen. What’s left?

I can smell the delphiniums,
and if I look through them into a midsummer’s eve

bonfire, my sight will renew,
awash with the blue dye on my mother’s hands.

​