Jill Barrie
Tulips
In our buoyant backyard,
mounds of them, washed in pale
pink. They bob above the grass,
buoys on a sea of forgetfulness.
Today we have war. Refugees
dodge the sun, sleep on beds
of grass torn from roots,
the same grass they boil
with bulbs for soup. If bulbs
are eaten, petals are human
tongues that speak little of love
if at all. If I could wrap
the world in gauze, I’d love
each beetle, leaf, each petal
of our budding universe.
I’d lay a petal on my tongue,
swallow, lie in the grass,
looking up. I’d forgive those
who withheld love and offered
hatred or indifference.
Cupping their strange faces
in my hands as I cup tulips,
I'd drink till they were
clear and radiant as the sun.
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Image by Elina Sazonova from Pexels
Jill Barrie’s poems have appeared in American Literary Review, New Virginia Review, Bellingham Review, Cimarron Review, The North American Review and other publications. Forthcoming work will appear in The Louisville Review, Santa Clara Review, and Italian Americana.
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