A Man Was Murdered…

A man was murdered
in my city last Monday
and my Red America Peony

(the supreme of the red, single bloom peonies cultivated by Nathan Rudolph in 1976, likely to commemorate the bicentennial)

refuses to open.

It’s a herbaceous peony I carefully planted, watered, fertilized, protected this year
from late spring frost and
slaved over. Yet it
remains tightly balled.
Unrelenting.

I have been waiting
for what feels like weeks (years?) for it to open. Its ruby red petals gently clustered around a frilly golden center merely a memory.

Even the ants have abandoned
this flower,
the seeping sap
turning bitter.

I bought this plant years ago to honor my brother who died from ALS, a disease from which he also couldn’t breathe.

But still there is nothing.

Day after day it is the same. Another peony balled up on the ground with a knee on its stem
choking off the air,
crying out for some kind of justice.

As the smoke from the fire at the auto parts store drifts into my yard
And the sirens from fire trucks and police cars cause discord with the cardinals and the crow,
it occurs to me that maybe nothing
will bloom this year,
nor should it.

Maybe nature senses the death of dignity,
compassion
and justice
and will take away
the ease and pleasure
this kind of supremacy
we white, privileged humans
are incapable
of surrendering.

by Lee Erickson