I plucked two dandelions today,
before the weed hackers got to them. And
removed their stems, getting small amounts of
green weed-paste under my nails.

but it was worth it, I had two sunny dandelion heads left
which I took and put behind my spectacles,
one in front of each eye.
and I ambled around with arms out, blindly yelling “I’m seeing yellow!”
with a rather
childish air and grin.

and it makes me chuckle; how easy it is
for a field of plain saffron weeds to make me smile again.

only last night, you were playing video games
past 2am and punching each other
playfully, the room echoing with your laughter
and your daughter fast asleep in her crib
shuffled a little when she heard you
and sensed turmoil brewing in the days ahead,
only sooner, and you would have never expected it.

today, we decided to tear down your home
and in ignorant bliss, pronounced you guilty,
because you weren’t there picking daisies, that’s for sure.

we watched you being shoved into shackles and driven away
to dwell in the silence of your inconsistencies –
of Young and Brainwashed, of Promising and Lost –
and though you made no sound, there was so much noise
we could not hear above the uproar of hysteria
of the maniacal tendencies that were supposed to
characterize your search for Truth,
so we sat back and let you drown in the void of your dangerous schemes
while your mother sobbed pitifully, six hundred
and some odd days later, still
and it didn’t occur to us to say a prayer.

each insufferable moment we casually walked past,
witnesses who could take the stand for you,
but we were unable to bear the assault of being labeled
Friend of the Enemy
and shirked from the duty of Mere Sympathizer
lest we lose our credibility, lose that promising career, unable to pay off
the three cars spilling over on the sidewalk
and instead we joined the choir
and sang the chorus, unflinchingly,
with great pride even
because you weren’t there picking daisies, that’s for sure

but there were helicopters, you see, and armed gunmen
to secure the vicinity in case you jumped, or spoke too loudly and scared us
as we watched you on our high definition LCD screens,
equipped with cable, internet, ON Demand as well
so we could be kept informed, kept blinded from our own
hypocrisy, when we professed ideals of Justice and Equality
and Basic Human Rights,
spoke the Truth, but couldn’t walk the talk because we left you
with a guilty verdict already pronounced,
sentenced you to a lifetime of psychiatric examinations, anti-depressant pills, and
narcotics so you could sleep without being haunted by our uncivilized ignorance
burdened by bigoted judgments and brazenly dogmatic denunciations
while we lived a life full and rich and wholly deserving.

it still doesn’t occur to us to say a prayer.

though to be sure,
you weren’t there picking daisies.

He strode on ahead, tall and dark and imposing as always. She followed in his wake, quickening her steps and tightening her clutch on the little girl’s hand, gazing around at the hustle and bustle of the airport wide-eyed. Even as she stood next to him, sheltered by his watchful protective eye, she felt suddenly alone and overwhelmed…little more than a girl-child being exposed to the world for the first time.

Was she really the mother of her own little girl? Yes – the heart of the warm little body drowsily holding onto her beat to the same rhythm as her own heart. She could still remember, could still feel, the hot pinprick in her belly unfurling into strangely delicious warmth, growing larger under her hands and his.

She looked up at him through her lashes, wondering – who was he, this man, her husband? She loved him, yes, but she did not know him. He held her through homesick tears, letting her hiccups echo in his silence; stilled the bone-rattling shiver of shockingly unfamiliar cold with the warm of his own solid mass; allowed her curious fingers to creep under his shirt, exploring and discovering. Moments of muffled velvet silence; they were THEIRS, and she held onto them jealously.

And still she did not know him, this curt businessman who nodded briefly to the other men in suits and waited impatiently and spoke abruptly, commandingly, was obeyed instantly. He seemed years older, and she felt the desperate keenness of being alone, the blinding lights and steel of the airport hurting her eyes, nauseous from her own naiveté. She was still only a girl and he was a man, her husband; she loved him but did not know him.

The author of this piece wishes to remain anonymous.

in improbable times
i will decipher your speech
plainly
but now i can only seek to trace
your profile
while you lie
against your grain
hair matted just so
and i’m certain
i’d see you
quiver only slightly
before you
bend
round my finger

she is young, black haired
heavy belly struggling up a flight of stairs
and through a large family of disapproval.

still too afraid to rifle through
his old belongings, lest she misplace something
and send her steady life
crumbling to the floor.

she is fits of sleep, only able to lie on her side
these late days
dreaming of him, an older him with
furrowed expressions but still the same
tender seedling heart.

they are an embrace, a simple change in
proximity to one another. closer
with hearts peeling away the crusts
of being alone.

beneath her eyes, she grasps tightly to this serenity
between the flaky layers of sleep.
but she is also darkness
suddenly waving her arms beneath waves
of blue ink, unable to breathe in dreaming,
the heaviness of drowning setting upon her chest.

awake, she is shaken,
caught in brief movements of grief,
moments of rejected memory.
and she is only,
hand clenched midair, dreaming.