after Kaveh Akbar
Daffodils fell from the sky last night.
I am watching a woman with the head of a daffodil
walk her dog which is also a daffodil
down a street littered with daffodils.
Every house in the neighborhood is a daffodil
filled with daffodil people who are eating daffodils
for breakfast with their daffodil children.
They keep little daffodils in cages,
but some leave their daffodils outside.
The sun is a daffodil blooming in the sky.
I am listening to a daffodil woman
sing a sad song about her daffodil lover.
Her voice is a kind of daffodil. Last night,
I dreamt of daffodils growing out of my head
which is another way to say I dreamt
about my grandmother who was also a daffodil.
I miss the smell of daffodils. I remember
my mother’s voice snapping like the stem
of a daffodil. My daffodil had rot in her roots.
My daffodil needed the rot removed.
We were daffodils who knew nothing
about daffodils. There was nothing we could do.
