in an English garden
where she uprooted
heaved herself off to the wilds,
shouting rebellion at the wind.
splayed down into dust,
working it deep
under her nails,
furiously she went on
blooming, sharp and loud.
Mother is built
of adamantine stem
and violent bright shields. But I,
I am oxalis that creeps
low along the earth,
snuffling out existence with suffocating persistence.
I’ve turned a sparse-faced flower
sitting sullen in the pink-purple umbrella
shadow of my mother’s shields.
I am crawling
out of my mother’s shade,
yawning my arms across the breadth of the yard.