Old Mrs. Sonnenkratz, there in her yard
Bent over like a bulb herself, works hard
To edge her sidewalks, salt the slugs, and spray
The aphids from her roses. Every day
She’s pruning, pulling, plucking, weeding out
The strays that might be festering. No doubt
She loves her lawn, loves order, symmetry
Of seedlings, herbal borders; she would be
Ruthless to seeds gone volunteer, to Queen
Anne’s livid bruise, half-hidden in its green-
White froth of lace. Today, her turban slants
Askew over her blue-rinsed hair; her plants,
Once straight as soldiers on her patio,
Are blitzkrieged out of order, the yellow
Tulips (three days blossoming in a vase
Atop her wrought-iron table) don’t erase
Her frown, her sloppy slippers, or the brown
Age spots (about the size of dimes around)
She often hides with gloves. A jagged scar
Runs up her forearm, where the numbers are.
The tulips, like her, blowsy, need to go;
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik’s on her radio.
She thinks, Acht nicht, acht nicht, nacht musik…
Their leaves are lances, and they slant, oblique.
The tulips stems outlast their showy flowers;
For years she plants by day and, at night, cowers.
The yellow of the petals starts to burn;
Perhaps the worst of absence is return.
She smokes and shakes and smokes. Each flowerbed’s
As neat as graves. She stubs out ash. The heads
Of these tulips wore bright turbans, tight-wrapped
And now unwrapping. In Berlin, she was slapped:
Sie ist ein Jude… Dry-eyed in Dachau, how
She’s crying over bulbs bloomed too far now.
In a world of absence, presence leaves a scar.
Each tulip’s ravelled to a six-point star.
(for Lilo Mueller)