For Meg, who said she’d always wanted someone to bring her the blossoming branches of a magnolia tree, and I have no magnolia tree but I’m looking at the branch and thinking of her.

I lie here witness to this still death,
the edges of a tree’s life radiate
outward, crystal confines

The branches soaking clear in stale water
hanging heavy, holding back as blossoms
mourn.

Opaque Tiffany lamps, face down petals sail
and drop. Is it gravity that pulls them down,
or some force deep within propels them

Past the dark mahogany of Grandma’s dresser
to the clipped tendrils of brown carpet? Black
sirens reel back; drunk shadows fall over.

Blossoms peel off. Cezanne skinned those
red onions endlessly. High central branches
bear no flowers, reach high; leafy elves leap

Towards pine beams that shield the sun. Near
the neck of the decanter, two blossoms stare
straight out. Mauve thistle eyes tilt at a new

Moon behind the beige drapes. Six petals white
as wet maggots flare out spread eagle pin wheels,
slice the air like swords.

Listen! The Silence!
They sigh then they sway!