When I Say I Want Flowers

Svetlana Litvinchuk

This month, when the moon was not yet full,
a manic craving for light in my belly overcame
me and I rooted around for strawberries like a hungry

turtle. I burst into the garden and planted marigolds
to show the universe I wanted this. I sent wishes
up to the clouds on the backs of stray eyelashes.

Longing is a sacred madness. My husband came outside
to ask if I was coloring outside the lines again—
by my hands, flowers were always escaping the confines

of the garden. I dug 21 holes and filled each one
with my fingerprints. They multiplied like earthworms
cut in half by my garden shovel. As a child the owl

called my grandmother’s name until she left our property
for good, and then the owl followed. There were so many flowers
blooming at that April funeral. When I say I want flowers,

I mean I want to be as round and fertile as the Earth.
I want to become a turnip left in the ground through the frost—
to grow tender in the cold months and leave the earth

richer than I found it. The only home I’ve ever known
was carved for me by an earthworm. When I say I’m with child,
I mean God is curled beneath my rib. I want to crack

open like a seed—to grow again and again. When I say
I want flowers, what I’m saying is how could anything be better
than being cracked open by the world’s most vulnerable thing?