Second Generation

A false vitality -- the last --

would flush the drying stalks

of drooping severed gladiolus,

pink throats gone lavender,

browning edges furling under

tight and neat as hemmed handkerchiefs.

I dip cut stems in steaming pans --

a boiling push up stiffened veins of phloem

the shock to force them back to bloom.

I cool them from the silver tap,

listen for the hiss of Bessemer.

Nazis took the grandparents to sea

tied to planks to dip their feet in flame,

'til torture drew the sizzle of their legs,

the juices popping thickly in the fire,

the screaming like a blade ripped through the root;

then as for mercy plunged in freezing brine,

freed to swim the icy Baltic.

Cold tears and pain don't cure the blossom,

yet whispered tale in fading floral ear

stanches flows of mortal mortal fear.