On Rare Flowers
After “Lilacs,” by Henri Matisse

Selfish mother
Withholding lover
Narcissistic catoptrophobe

Why must I want so much, so
Deeply, so
Unendingly

Sometimes I wake up before the sun
My heart racing with all the questions
I’ll never get answers to

The world is green
And I am in search of blue, you
In my dreams

You shimmer, translucent
At the edges
An omen

Which is worse:
Throwing out flowers before they wilt or
Holding on to a dead thing?

—Arielle McManus

Arielle McManus is learning as she goes and writing one liners from a tiny, sunlit bedroom in Brooklyn.