The flower openswithout violence.This is what I learned in elementary,how resistance lives in softness.I stand in the kitchen, watchingpetals drift into my teacup,thinking of my mother’s handsfolding white sheets,how they will yellow with time.Everything palebecomes something else.In dreams, I am notthis daughter who changeswithout permission.I am the space betweenwhat she savedand what she lost.She told me once:to preserve a flower,you…
