Glass Poetry Press

Volume Six Issue Two

Laura Sheahen


Full Many (a flower born to blush unseen And waste her sweetness on the desert air) Gets by as best she can in the Mojave. Her tangled root bed briefly fed the pulp Of cactus that soon shriveled. Furnace winds Incinerated pollen, scorched her seeds. The tumbleweed and chokebrush look away. So dewlessly Her stalk stiffens to hemp. Dark green leaves Hoard each year's single raindrop, Grow fine thorns. The rattlers keep their distance. Her petals gone, The stubborn pull of chlorophyll remains. Unwillingly Her cells refine the light. And none to witness her efficiency But at night The cold sand spirits wind about and whisper May you live long Alone Her parched stem droops in protest Why did you make me strong Her lidless pores would weep But cannot spare water for tears.