Joan Leotta writes

Deadheading Lilacs

 

I did not brave August's heat

to pick off the now paper brown petals

once a profusion of purple blooms

spouted from my bush, a sprig

my grandma gave me.

So they remained, now spent, once

fragrant, now dull.

I missed my chance

to best secure next season's glory.

Now, I must stand shivering

in short days of coming winter

to clip off those old

shriveled blossoms

hoping that in the coming spring

at least some of

those  brown dry stems

will "set" with  buds,

sprout green leaves,

again, explode into a

cascade of color and scent.

As I clip those dried, scent-less husks,

I promise my lilac that when

when he holds forth again,

proliferating tight petal bunches,

I will visit in the yard and clip

to fill my house with fragrant loveliness;

to shape and prepare the bush for

next season's blooming.

Joan Leotta writes

Broken? 

It’s not just the egg, 
 

splatted, crackled, sprawling, seeping over 

red clay tiles on my country kitchen floor, 

It’s not just that this last egg 

was the one needed to complete 

souffle goodness for our dessert, 

No, it’s the text you sent 

I and I read while 

egg in hand, I was poised 

to crack it, separate the yolk 

safely into the bowl. 

“I won’t be home,” you wrote. 

“Not tonight, not ever again.
  

Except of course to pick up my things.” 

So ends the oval perfection 
  

I thought of as our relationship. 

Tearing up, I grab a rag, 

To wipe up the egg from my floor. 

As I bend down, I note to myself, 

souffle can be corrected into a pudding. 

I am whole and bright and perfect 

Like the yolk there on the floor. 
  

This yolk, that souffle he liked 

will not remain but I will continue. 

One quick swipe of the cloth. 

Egg is gone.
  

I text back one word: “Good.” 

Because all is good now, all is good. 

Humpty Dumpty cannot be put back together, 

but I was never an egg on a wall. 

No, I am not broken.

-- Bao Ly


Muffet and Dumpty -- Darlene Graesser