Poetry, Lauren Lagasse
Tulips will wilt in a week; the petals curl inwards on themselves and fall into a graceful lady dancing—
the powdered heady pink, the color of your lipstick,
has divided itself; swan fades into deep fuscia.
soon, the petals will scatter themselves on the windowsill and will be swept away to make room
for the new bouquet, as fresh and lovely as the first one was. If the blooms didn’t need as much sunlight, you muse, I could watch them dance forever.
the sunlight must tantalize them, I say back, twisting the vase so that we are face to face with our women.
I wish we could give them what they need, you say,
and I can only hum in agreement.
we can only do so much.
how many more times must we go through this cycle? can they not stay fresh and young and lovely forever?
the old opera record humming in the background
will stop, and someone will have to start it again.
which of us will it be?
who will restart the record?
who will stop the ladies dancing and let them prepare for another night?
we both reach for it at the same time.
Lauren Lagasse (she/her) is a student in New York studying creative writing, among other things. She enjoys playwriting, experimental short fiction, and poetry, because she can't make up her mind about whether or not she enjoys writing dialogue. She sings alto in her a cappella group. Find her on Instagram @laurensydd.