I’m all done being nice.
It hasn’t gotten me anywhere.
Since I was young, I gave
everything away—milk
money, homework, adoration.
Everyone wanted to make me
into a small version of herself—
teaching me weaving, writing,
wiles. All I wanted was love—
picked a bouquet of dandelions
and handed it to my mother.
When she turned her mouth
into a little o and called the tight
yellow suns weeds, my body
became a weight I wanted
to let go. I thought of all
the lessons I memorized
to keep me still, the colors
I couldn’t wear because
they clashed with my red hair,
all the rules of modesty
so men would not look at me
with hunger. The only thing
I owned was a jar I was given,
like Pandora, as a girl. Before I
unlatched the lid, I had already lost
everything—faith, health,
my child. I refused to watch
what flew out. But something
hard as lapis, real as want,
wrenched my wrist right back
so hope remained, writhing
alone at the bottom of the jar
like dirty water after dead
tulips are discarded—
yellow stamens dropping
pollen to the floor. Silent,
it watched me for years.
Months at a time, I forgot
it was there. But when it’s
trapped like that, it grows
so large, nothing can quell it.
No one thanks me for what
I have done. But I don’t need
praise anymore. I turned
weeds into flowers.
____________________________
Excerpted from If Some God Shakes Your House by Jennifer Franklin. Used with permission of the publisher, Four Way Books. Copyright 2023 by Jennifer Franklin.
