When I first thought of death 2
When I first thought of death, I thought of the anemone, red-mouthed, bold, a hush of fire opening on a winter hillside. It leaned into the light, not afraid yet. It said nothing: but I heard it clearly. Like the kalaniyot in stories, crimson and defiant in the cracks of stone, they spoke of blood and spring, of boys who never came home. A symbol, they said. Of peace. Of war. Of memory pinned to the wind. Then I thought more. I thought of the cyclamen, those bashful petals, how we’d find them shy beneath rocks, bend low to braid their blush into our hair. Now halos are not flowers, but flame, and children who should be naming petals “he loves me, he loves me not” lie still beneath dust. Their hands will never finish the rhyme. They should be weaving crowns of narcissus, not wearing smoke. I thought of the Iris, pale as breath, rising from dry earth like something holy. My cousin bears its name, half flower, half fire, laughs like a song, refuses the d...
