my grandmother believes
in red blood flowers
each woman has at least one
many survive many do not
I had no idea what this meant
until now
I am here
lying down in bed
she tells me to hold
the emptiness
cradle it in my arms
create a soft space
in the crux of my arm
so it can lay its head
safe
she knew
all about opening
and falling
the brown spotted
blotted out buried
in cracked pavements
where scurrying feet stomp
on milkweeds
heedless
headless
in the heat wave
changing seasons bring
who thinks to look down
I never thought
until now
just because I don’t want it
doesn’t mean milkweeds
aren’t beautiful
remember
the red the blood
the flower