Table of Contents

Where We Grew Up: A Cyber Chapbook

Small Game Collector

Afraid of the Smudge

Where We Grew Up


Small Town Sex Education

August in Escalon


Something About the Author

Poetry Home Page

Quill email image


Every year, she grew gladiolus
along the asphalt tongue
which poked driveway between the teeth
of a red picket fence.

Bright and bizarrely marked.
Pseudo butterfly orchids
erupting color in triple rows
from their crisp, slanting stalks.

I plant these
just for daddy, she says.

Parts the autumn earth
with her fingers,
heels the twisted corms in.

Come May,
she uses a steak knife
to cleanly behead
each spear of its blooms.
Impales sliced gladioli stems
upon the prongs
of a florist's steel frog.
Clutters window sills and table tops
with funereal scented clusters.

Your father's favorite flower.

She edges past the blaring t.v.
where he lies, snoring
on the livingroom rug.

Just for daddy, she tells me.

Arranges gladioli crammed jars
on either side of his head.

c2002, Jennifer Lagier