Laura Falsetti

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On Becoming a Hydrangea

It is the summer of nothing
blooming. Of all the perennials
arranged with precision
in the front yard
nothing speaks.

On my run I wear
mismatched socks
nobody notices

me, my sweat soaked t-shirt a natural deterrent        
to those who might feel the urge to take me
gently by the arm and escort me home.

At the meal
I pull tender bones
from my mouth
stack them on the edge
of the plate
like driftwood
the meat of the fish
smooth and oily
like the best of feasts
like the ones from a long time ago.

Tonight I am the hydrangea
alive but bare
leaves green but
no bees, no nectar drip.
The shriveled dahlias and I
whisper back and forth
like sisters at bedtime
until finally we grow
silent.

Laura Falsetti is an emerging poet and dentist with work in Lunch Ticket, Sweet Lit, Iron Horse Literary Review and other journals. She lives, reads, and writes in western Washington with four bossy cats.