Wooded fibers fine as cornsilk
Weave through these iris husks
I'm handling.
None passed away—they died
here in the sun-warmed earth
I dig in.

Transplanted crowded colors
that my neighbor tried to trash
for clashing rowdy
with her roses:
I, fierce salvager,
knew a sudden need.

I need their laughing panting
furred-gold faces, their silent
swiftly sworded leaves.
I need especially their bulbs:
whited grotesque undergrowth,
their ugly turnip tubers kin to 
megalomanic tumor X'ed, irradiated,
above left ear, that re-invading
burst my father's brain.

I gently pry, then rip them, tear.
Sorrowing, I excise each from the other
in their cleaving,
ever-widening bed.
Resistant, slowly yielding,
stunted things stubborn in the soil.

I yearly need to bury fibrous tubers:
in an exercise of meager faith
I will us both to bloom.


Caroline P.M. West is a senior majoring in English from American Fork, Utah. She has been published in BYU Today and Exponent II.