a roadside cluster 
of wild tiger lilies 
stands in silent witness.  
I have long loved these flowers, 
begged my mother to let me 
gather a brilliant bouquet,
but it’s illegal
to pick them, she always says. 

Now she picks 
dirt from my gravel-stung palms,
rinses my bloodied legs
with drinking water.
A puncture wound 
in my left thigh throbs and throbs.
The lilies are nothing but vivid 
orange flares of blurred vision.

I keep my eyes on the smudges of beauty
even as I cry.