Marie C Lecrivain

I Find My Father in Flowers 

With camera in hand,

I find my father 

in photos of flowers,

wonderstruck

by color, stamen,

and form,

their open secrets 

and innocence 

intrigue and amuse me,

a connection to him

I’ll never let go.

How I Would’ve Handled It

    Flowers. Olive branches. Lots of them. I'd commission a book-shaped marker with your name chiseled in Old English script. That which remained would be sealed in a beautiful bronze urn embossed with a phoenix in flight. As for music, Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" followed by William Orbit's interpretation of Samuel Barber's "Adagio With Strings" followed by Daft Punk's "Get Lucky." We'd take turns toasting you with champagne and reading passages from your favorite translation of "The Rubiyat of Omar Khayam". We'd cry, laugh, and be giddy with joy and relief. We'd stay by your side through that first night - more for ourselves than for you - because to say “goodbye” is not a word we recognise anymore. We'd greet the sunrise, place our lips to the earth to where you’ve returned, rise up, and then go into the new day with heads held high and tears brimming from our eyes. 

      Alternately, we'd take a day trip into Palos Verdes, and on a sunny windswept cliff, and in sight of the rich and monied, open your urn and release you into the ether. 

      Either way, your exit - like you -  would be glorious.

The Broken Teapot

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, 

many are strong at the broken places – Ernest Hemingway 

There was the day my treasured teapot broke, 

the one that belong to my favorite grandmother,

retrieved with only five minutes to spare

before I was driven from my second home

by greed and familial grief that boiled over

into everyday conversations about how

I used to be so much easier to control.

I would, on occasion, use the teapot,

decorated with flowers and faded gilt trim,

and revel in my grandmother’s quiet love,

one of the few heirlooms that remained whole.

And it was an accident; believe me when I tell you

that the one who broke it is was clumsy as an ox

before their morning coffee, and didn’t comprehend

my tears as I picked up the pieces, and pressed them

into my palms to pierce the envelope of my flesh.

A string of porcelain pearls leaked into my bloodstream

and traveled in search of the cracks in my soul

to harden it against future catastrophe.

This is another gift passed on to me

as my face takes on her shape,

my hair turns the color of spun steel,

and my spirit locks in place.