100 Sunflowers

 

It was the morning

and both of the roosters wings had been torn from his body.

A predator had come and ended the cocks reign once and for all.

He had always lorded over the flock with his talons

and his calls.

Now, the brood was alone , left to wander aimlessly.

I had just awaken from a dream in which my lover was being pursued by cannibals.

They were eating his beloved flesh.

I kissed him one last time,

but he refused to look me in the eyes the way he used to.

In the morning, I rose with a beggars prayer in my chest and a lump in my throat.

There was a Gospel reading from the book of St. Luke,

St, Cecilia's robe burned especially royal alit by the sun.

That day I planted 100 sunflowers

and I didn't know why,

like the way the chicken laid their eggs cattywampus

in places they couldn't remember

because their domineering master had been devoured.

They had too long depended on his tyranny for their order.

It was that day he stood over me and demanded words,

and for the first time they wouldn't come.

Sad master.

It was as if he couldn't fly without my aimless chatter.

But I didn't want my lies in the soil. 

The flowers seemed sacred.

So I was struck dumb for the sake of being true

So he left.

He left.

He left

I took to thinking on August, when days are hot

and when water will be scarce.

I imagine I will wander like the chickens do,

catawampus but unrestrained.