What I Meant to Say

this morning when I heard your words
when you opened
the door not to apologize

was that the peonies I bought
for eight ninety-nine at Trader Joe’s
were refusing to open locked like angry fists

so tightly turned into themselves
they'd forgotten how to dance
with cheap chrysanthemums

What I meant to ask when I forgot your words
but still felt their throttle

was why
after being chopped—contained in crystal
teeming

with leaves—sugar—scorn—

should their last act be to unravel

as if they must reveal
the bright beauty of fissure that kind curly center

possible even when burdened
even when clasped

behind the kitchen sink—
a perennial species that wants

but has never stretched beyond

the past? What I mean to say: there is a spoiling
sweetness an unblossoming

in the massive window of just letting light breach

every damn part.

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Pam Sinicrope served as an editor for Howling Bird Press and is an MFA candidate at Augsburg University. She is a senior poetry editor for RockPaperPoem. Some of her poems are forthcoming or found in Rogue Agent, Spillway, The Night Heron Barks, Aethlon, Literary Mama, and 3 Elements Review. Pam lives in Rochester, MN. She has a doctorate in Public Health and engages in research to eliminate health disparities with a focus on cancer prevention.