The landscaper had planted the perfect peonies
in my Pacific Northwest yard.
The thin petals opened into elegant circles,
a pink so dark they were almost red.
But they weren’t the kind I wanted.
I wanted the peonies of my Midwest childhood.
Pale pink. Round and lush.
Heavy blooms bloated with May rains.
Thick clusters loosening in midday sun.
It’s all my fault. I hadn’t said what I meant.
I didn’t describe the flower, and my mother is dead.
Even those peonies couldn’t drink all this grief.
They’d bloom for one week then tumble over,
too full to hold their own heads.
Sarah Seybold’s poetry and prose are published or forthcoming in Alaska QuarterlyReview, Chicago Quarterly Review, ZYZZYVA, LIT, Arts & Letters, Great River Review,and elsewhere. She grew up in Terre Haute, Indiana, and earned her BA in English and Gender Studies from Indiana University and her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Oregon. She lives with her husband and daughter in Columbus, Ohio.