If offered a Mother’s Day carnation, 
she would have refused.
She had one polyester orchid cradling dust 
in her home’s guest room
and that was nod enough, she felt, 
to the unreachable unbridleable outdoors, the gardenfuls 
of earthy umbilical cords seeping green 
that birthed as audaciously 
whether she cared or slept.
When offered a picture of her brain, 
she did not refuse.
the doctor photographers returned 
with well-wishes and balloons. 
You have flowers, they said,
growing inside of your head. 
They spoke of sprouting but
she could not fathom their seeding, 
what bee or notion had landed
in strike against her flowerlessness.
They said that patient treatment 
of the localized roots would do
wonders, would pick the flowers,
but she wondered what neglect
on her mind’s part
she was paying the price of
in a bail of unwelcome blooms. 
We’ll try a mulch, they said
that would pain her,
peel her very stomach layers 
and pit the roots on top of her head,
but bless the harvest 
of her flowers.
Disregard the aching bones,
they told the breaking body.
Think of the flowers.
The floral newscasters 
offered their hands in parting
wished her colors and fragrances
(and a happy Mother’s Day).
I’m fine, she told strangers 
on her walk to the terminal., 
I’m only allergic to my lilies.