Made easier by an absence of bluestem in our backyard meadow.

The gay Elektra complex isn’t so far-fetched—

The girl who broke my heart once walked the same college halls as my dad,

Works at his favorite plant store,

Could sling scientific names of flowers like I sling words.

She was going to bring us bluestem, back in the beginning.

Thank God the only colors peppering the green grass are pink and yellow.

In an image description of a photo I post on Facebook I say my wheelchair

Is surrounded by pink and white flowers—the coneflowers, the daisies.

This morning, though, I wheel through the meadow on the path

My dad has mowed and see: no daisies, just pink petals burned white by the sun.

Last year, a doe gave birth in our backyard meadow, the grasses matted down,

Slick with dewey life. So here’s my prayer to the meadow:

Oh roots, oh leaves, oh stems, oh rhizomes—

Understand the machine of my body. Forgive the way we carve through your flesh.

Hold our new memories, fragile like soap bubbles.

Allow me to witness your growth as a salve to my bleeding heart.