You were told copper turns the kiss blue,
so you put in a cent and crank the handle.
Our home is a floral mirage in a cement
glacier and our hydrangeas always grow
red. When you moved here from a distant
garden, you expected to see an iteration
of yourself on each city surface. Instead,
you watch the flowers redden and tell me
a theory about planting a penny to turn
the blooms indigo. I preferred to wander
the thin lines of city sidewalks in search
of an end that could open itself. Cities
move, if always toward failure. Two-faced,
you call me, when I return, as though
I’ve made a pretense of our life together.
I walk by your pile of dirt, copper singing
in its new grave. My face flushes and you
look down. The city buds silver in spring.
This continual want of what’s on the other
side, it’s like a penny in the sheets, isn’t it—
a bruise in the shape of a president’s head.
The flower head will never burn blue.
I know this as myth—the work of an ocean
over a useless treasure.
To celebrate National Poetry Month we are again presenting an April Celebration: 30 Poets/30 Presses (#ArmchairBookFair21), a feature we initiated last year to help promote new releases whose publicity opportunities were thwarted due to the pandemic. Please join us every day for new poetry from the presses that sustain us.