Page 17 - WDickinson_Blackwell_Submission

Negrita Tulips Are Perennial

It is as true as the first date, late-night, to Dairy Queen. Brittle chocolate envelopes soft
vanilla. Take a bite. Laugh. The coldness of the ice cream cuts, but sweetness has a way with
redemption.
It is as true as blue-purple tulips in Spring, peeking timidly between dew or between
two cheek bones. A blooming hand with petal fingers that is so easily a (close)budded fist. The
moon coalesces with the vinyl seats, and the fearful brand of affection that plagues each
night stretches out before you.
It must be falling in love.
It is as true as true as his fingers around a rubber loop, fumbling to unroll it, to unravel
you. In your mind, it is shaped much like a trigger guard. It doesn’t take much to hurt. A little
pressure, a no, and the bullet slides through the barrel, as if familiar with such a
motion. Lacerations. Multiple systems trauma. You cannot look him in the eye afterward.
You had no idea rape kits could cost more than monthly rent.
It is as true as the grey line on a pink-tipped plastic stick. Correction: double
grey line. Lay flat. Wait 3 minutes. 99% Accuracy. Still, you check again.
You don’t know what it is quite yet. It has been a closed door. The crude brunt of a
joke. A euphemism for tragedy, perhaps. It is in the question, “Did you do it?” It is in the
question, “Did you ask for it?” And the side-glances that silently ask if, perhaps, you liked it.
It is as true as the stranger you imagine in orange behind glass. You only imagine this
figure, shrouded behind uncertainty, when you dream. You wonder who else is awash in
moonlight, biting into the chocolate shell, startled by the coldness beneath.
As true as the bagged apples and the packages of cheddar cheese in the cart
and WIC printed across the top. You flip it label-side down. Your ankles ache from carrying
alien weight. The alimony is scheduled to come next month.
As true as the first time your daughter sees snow. As true as the dark forms of three
snowmen cutting shadows into white planes across ground. Mom and dad, she explains,
holding thin cottonwood hands together over baby. You go inside. The next day, the sun guts
the bodies, water entrails sluicing down the storm drain.
You decide that it is more than fifteen minutes crunched in the back of a 1993 Chevy
Malibu and a few murmurs of oh baby followed by la petite mort (for him, at least).
It is a snowball of a mistake and a monthly check of child support, but then, a small
report card in the mail where her 1st grade teacher said she is simply “blooming,” and should
be aptly renamed la petite vie.

Spring comes early this year and the bulbs of tulips, feeding from 9 months of decay,
bud green under sun.

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