Nicholas Bradley

Flower

As a rule, we don’t lock our doors
so it was only natural

that I was burst in upon
while hiding in the steam

one enervated weekend
when he wanted to deliver

a blossom he’d culled
“all by myself”

from the sinewed dogwood
out front. The potent bits

had been stripped
away with forethought

to safeguard me from sneezing
and what he placed

in my dripping hand
was a benefaction

of four limp petals
on the verge

of disaggregation. When I asked
what it was, he paused

at the impudence. “A pink
daffodil!”—some invention

that made sense enough
and gave us both

a satisfying purchase
on the multitudinous earth

until a weakness
some hours past bed

left me scrolling through pictures
of cultivars in every shade.