Poems by Ben Wilson

State Flower

The prison
unfolds

like the seams
of a lily.

Likewise, I see
the tower,
its stem erect,

with so much
crowded

in the pregnant
center,

it’s flower
barbed to
any man

who dare grasp
its coiled mesh.

Hungry with the faces of men,
tell me when its petals
rupture at the seams,

and I’ll reveal
the gnarled root,
and red blossom
bursting

between its fingers.


Sunday

My father sought
its song
each day,

that is, the
dawn—

yolk trickling
through

the robin’s
sound,

breeding
bright-eyed daisies
sway

as to this scud
of clouds

in thick white
arpeggios—

I think he would
agree with me
that spring

is a kind of
remembering.

And what is
memory

without forgetting
something

ancient in its
place

but copper glint
of pennies

cast
into the dreadful
maw

of a waterfall
coursing
to a river

whose name
I cannot
remember

for the life
of me.

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