The Fieldstone Review

Myosotis in February

by Gianna Sannipoli

You are the lover
I’ll remember when the world goes dark.
You gave me a bouquet of scorpion grass,
depressingly hued, lulled me with a
romantic appellation and an origin of a knight
who fell into a river. I watched an army of blue
mouse ears follow the mist of your voice,
conducting sylphs in the telling of that river,
that Parisian water waltz. I waited at the bank’s bench
so devotedly that it became a displaced pew. I wore
unremovable Red Shoes, cross-tucked under the wood.
Amongst the weeds were mice wielding novelty nacre
scimitars and other things demagnetized from your armor.
Pinching creatures, ankle-slitting swords, rising from
malignant roots. All that came up was breathless and
piercing. No daisies. Blood-draining blue. Love, I have
not forgotten. I need no more reminders. I never knew I
needed mercy until each morning molded over with the
dark tar of your absence, and it was my dance, my stalk
stuck in it. Lifeless. Unmoving. A rotten bench.
Pointe shoes. Ill-natured flowers. Hours of indelible devotion
lost in language: ne m’oubliez pas, ne m’oubliez pas.
Out of darkness, into some softer blue. I will forget you.