after Noor Hindi

I write about flowers.
I tell you about blossoms under tank treads 
because I feel that part of the world 
needs more beauty. I know I know 
nothing about children becoming anything
let alone daisies, but I won’t stop picking,
placing them gently between the stanza breaks.
I read news articles. They speak to me about the moon. 
I can’t stop being haunted by metaphors 
I didn’t find myself.
They’re so beautiful, the metaphors.
It’s so beautiful, my dread.
All my strategies for making the brutal tender end
in disappointment. 
I seek the outer perimeter of horror to bind, fix, and wither
my anxieties while you wait on death. 
Not your own, but death.
Someone will tell me this poem is lovely 
and they won’t know its cost.
When I die, I’ll keep writing about flowers. I don’t know
what else to offer you.