Stigma

The day I first suspect she will try to die
I push a pin through the throat of a tulip.

Violet-eyed, seeping—it accedes to me,
and soon it will straighten its stem.

My voice I have come to consider
ornamental—this desire to furnish a room with its toll.

I drain the water each day
but still the vase clouds. Reliable,

how a cut bloom molders.
How a bell isn’t a bell until struck.

One painting in a gallery full of others
is nothing noteworthy.

But one painting hanging above a bed—
the human eye must scan to see

what it sees. It cannot capture
as a camera does, its subject, whole.

So it roves the scene,
and focuses on what is framed,

lilies against a dark cloth,
stigma curving away from whatever does

or doesn’t happen below.