Thoughts on My Mother’s Favorite Flower

Lilies sprouted out of my eyes one summer, blinding
me as the roots squished my two brown spheres

into mashed potatoes and garlic cloves, a ruin
to my colorsight. No longer were they able to fall

in love with worms on the sidewalk. I couldn’t stop
drinking water, would become so desperate I’d lick

condensation off strangers’ cups. The lilies made quick
work of the brooks of my open face, fed on

parched skin. A grist of bees helped them grow
strong, pollinated them as they tangled their stems

with blood vessels. I didn’t remove them, even when doctors
demanded their timely death. I told them how

at my mother’s funeral they called out to me with drooping
petals, how I snuck them out under my skirt. Instead,

I let lilies bloom out of me, dirtied beyond recognition,
petals dancing in the sun, reflected in my eyes.

Megan Borocki is an MFA candidate in poetry at Bowling Green State University. She is an assistant editor for Mid-American Review. In their free time, they enjoy taking naps and art journaling.