Milkweed

by Rose DeMaris

A toad lily has a fantastical look about its petals, as if an American
Child in a factory circa 1901 unfolded a tissue-paper orchid from her
Imagination and glued it to this long-stemmed shrub. In the age before
Plastic. Age of copper shingles on rooftops, copper cladding on 
The architectural accents of buildings, which oxidized to sea-green
Over time. From the balconies of such structures your ancestors caught
Glimpses of hurrying birds and cradled babies whose eyes mirrored
The aqua verdigris. Blue of blue creek lined on both sides with young 
Shoots of willow, smelling sweet. You used to cut them, used to bend
Wreaths for display above your bed, bend hearts, like a Paper Flower 
Factory child though it was 2014 in Montana and you were four years 
Divorced. Blue of blue enameled Mothers of God manufactured in 
Lyon, collected one by one in a small velvet box for a fated second
Chance when you will affix each medal to a 14-karat chain, or quietly
Stitch them onto the ivory lace bodice. My Mary appliqué. Say Yes, I
Do take thee. Now it is 2023. The charms are still boxed, bedside, beside 
Your great-grandparents on their wedding day, their black-and-white
Faces lustrous as unearthed graphite. The one you seek is seeking
You, says the life coach on Instagram. At forty-four you have grown so
Extravagantly lonely you volunteer now at the community garden just 
To talk with someone. Leigh-Ann shows you how to pull out the invasive
Weed called green dragon. Make sure to get the little bulb clinging to
The underground thread. White of white wet root. You do it well because
Everything counts. Every moment, thought, and gesture matter, every  
Word is preserved, pressed gently between infinite folds of universe:
Something you have come to feel in your solitude. You hope the one
Who is seeking you will also feel this, will smear the butter onto bread
With some awareness, with art, before he lifts it to your lips. Will feel it
When he walks the dog, wipes dry the dish. Imagine an eternal hall of red

Glass: In there, it is always this hour at the park. You are always resting 
On your back alone on the grass listening to a stranger play Bach’s Cello 
Suite #1 in G Major as bar after bar goes out forever. Red of red plastic
Trumpet-shaped feeder. All the birds your eyes have missed are there, all
Hummers who fly faster than life. Their sequined throats leave lines of 
Vanishing tinsel in the air. All your tears are puddled there, acidic and
Dulcified, both. The birds sip them, sustained. If you could see yourself as
They see you. Gold of gold. All your hours, even the agonies, are drops of
Milk for the mouth of a newborn form of life, in the future or in the past.
Even now they leak from a crack in this leaf of the plant monarchs most need.

::

Rose DeMaris writes poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. Her poems appear in New England Review, The Los Angeles Review of Books Quarterly, Alaska Quarterly Review, Image, Narrative, Tupelo Quarterly, and elsewhere. She received the Patricia Dobler Poetry Award, and Orison Books’ Best Spiritual Literature Award in Poetry. She holds advanced degrees in English and Native American Studies, as well as an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University, where she was a Creative Writing Teaching Fellow. rosedemaris.com

Image: Fisher, Ellen T. “Sumac and milkweed.” 1885. In the public domain (Boston Public Library).

ID: a painting of surmac and milkweed.