← v13n2, Fall 2014
Poetry · Volume 13, Number 2

restriction

If peony means binding, it’s shameful

not to witness the wind mill through them til

we’re short of breath. For a thing so submissive,

they have a way of holding our attention

by offering no closure: year after year

we cannot smother.

Black, in nature, no overtones, comes only at death

and after, the peonies remind us, big and satisfied.