Trained to hold
in, hold
on and on I
press these down, my
flower petal feelings
heaped then
stamped like
wet concrete.
They look solid,
look like stone cut
with the marble for St.
Peter’s. They
are not. There
is no glue, no
mineral adhesive
to accompany the
pressure so they
are motionless only
when my lungs are
still. One breath and
each petal is aloft,
brushing my face instead
of running down in
rivulets, but making
themselves known,
nonetheless.
Not Quiet Any More 