Cypsela

I’m not sorry when my young hands

pull dandelions from the earth and your body alongside them because I don't hear

(the sound of seeds falling against meadow dust is so quiet, like raindrops or muted)

screaming. My hands tangle, like streams across your scalp and did you know

how soft your hair is? Like feathers or childhood (Innocence: the space

between the top of your head and mine. I am so tall because of the years that I) spent

with undamaged roots. Your body loosens like joints unclicked when I tug. The noise

is so hushed. If I sing loud enough, I won’t (hear the sound of seeds dislocating

as I float away with your hair between my fingers. You) stay in the field, a stem and

an ovule left over.

I leave this meadow each fall. When I come back, it yields itself to me in the shape of

(footprints. Each time you press yourself tall, I step on you with my older sister feet.

It’s easier if that roaring is just the river, so I don’t hear) your screams.

But years later, when the stem of your spine still feels tiny

in my hands, I look at you, (are so beautiful, did you know that? I’m sorry I

never told you sooner. I know you worked so hard to become) a small flower,

the only one left. You have only three petals left but they are so golden.

A miniature sun at the heart of this dead field.

Katie Schneider is a poet from St. Louis. She attends Washington University where she is a Nemerov Writing Scholar. Her work is published in Spires Literary Magazine. She can be found at your local lake at 3am or on instagram (@katie._schneider).