They won’t stop their incessant blooming.
Sturdy, prolific along the walkway,
orange memorials he planted to himself
that she tries to tear from the ground,
but for months they won’t give way
because he buried the seeds deep,
their heads keep coming back
every time she cuts them off:
each night a relief,
each morning a renewed attempt
to purge this breed that can’t seed
but reproduces itself
by underground runners and division.
They have the kind of beauty
that can only be seen by someone
who doesn’t know beauty—
how it can double and triple itself,
reach beyond its designated plot
to take over the whole yard,
until it’s one uncontrollable mass,
the inverse of itself in excess,
a dark memory, a dueling thought,
the mind a decimal dividing
into itself, diminished
until no longer divisible,
a number that’s not.
Finally, after a year of digging,
a year of living within the fury,
the roots loosen their grip
on the dirt; they budge a little.