A school for flowers
Just for you, little schoolgirl, with your garden of lush,
tangled hair. For you, child of nine, with your eyes
glued to the floor as some office helper
rakes a brush through your matted curls, scolding,
“You need to comb underneath.”
“It is like a nest back here.”
Just for you, little fourth grader,
who I failed to rescue though I was older, saw it all—
the sun will open rusted flowers
lying mangled in the fields.
In the mute playground,
a statue of Santa Aparecida will shed tears of love.
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