Pot Bound and Wilting
Past our bloom,
we
have entered the season where
they
wait for us to die.
This flower was labeled Whitey;
this flower was marked Nigga Lover.
Is she still alive?
Didn’t he pass recently?
Was it in the paper?
We,
who witnessed the gardeners in green
mow down the scholars like weeds
on the White House lawn.
Blood
on the grass.
We,
who screamed at the gardeners in white
annihilating children listening to the Word,
delicate brown limbs pruned too early from the branch.
Blood
on the sidewalk.
This flower was labeled Whitey;
this flower was marked Nigga Lover.
Is she still alive?
Didn’t he pass recently?
Was it in the paper?
We,
on the porch now and out
of the bright sun,
only half-watch, half-listen
to the nightly news; it’s reruns.
A cyclic field of panicgrass
that is no longer ours to tend.
We
are the last wine hydrangea
clinging half-heartedly to the November bush.
Patricia Gomes is the current and first female Poet Laureate of New Bedford, Massachusetts and is loath to write her bio. Simply put: she writes, she’s writing, she continues to write; she’s interesting, she’s interested, and continues to be of marginal interest to those with a taste for absurdities. Recent publications include: Iodine Poetry, A Little magazine, Oddball Magazine, and Goreyesque.
