Alien flower morning-- 
sugar grain letters from Jupiter and 
how we whispered in spearmint--

Is it April or August 
when the Alien flowers 
grow?
~I ask my father every year 
even though we never know when
they're coming-- they don't
grow from the grass or from 
the thickets of onion-boiled weed
around the house-- the Alien flowers
sprout one lone stalk-- lighthouses--
beacons-- obelisks to a 
God with someone else's name-- 
pink-purple lip monuments to a
mother with oven mitts on both hands 
who uses the soil in place of brown sugar--
we called them Alien flowers before
we knew their mother lived
on Jupiter-- pressed their sweet
leaves-- cookie cut by 
discarded space ship wings-- 
pounded the dough in the fall of 
asteroids becoming lavender 
rock candy in the atmosphere--
She's trying to tell us about
her life there but she doesn't speak
human and before her children
left Jupiter they had once spoken
to each other in edible flowers--
garnished the house in agave orchid
and African violets on the staircase
every morning to tell her they loved
her and to tell her they were all leaving
and never coming back the same-- they 
returned in a space crafts and made speech 
with their tongues--
My brother and I understand because we 
sometimes speak in lavender to say goodnight
from these bunk beds--
whisper with the spearmint 
in the backyard--
We learned herb languages to tell
the stories that mouths forget--
grew our roots in the yard and held
onto each others onion-bulbs-- 
--caught the love letters from
Jupiter once a year-- mist tasting vaguely
like bubble gum dust-- leave
the candy wrapper to get stuck in the grass--
Humans don't remember that
the air on Jupiter is made from
confectioners sugar-- the soil
is purple-bruised from stray
celestial photography and the thumb prints
of astronauts-- the Jupitarians
once ate meringues and watched earth 
quiet like a soup bowl-- stirred
a long bony finger in the syrup
of the night sky and laughed about
how pink and vulnerable our skin is
even just standing in the sun--
freckle spattered with dandy lion hair--
Oh humans are funny things on their backs
in a soup bowl singing the alphabet 
as if each letter were going to 
finally become a hyacinth--
but Jupiter mother's children 
grew restless-- wiped the sugar
from their eye brows in the morning
and threw themselves away across
the atmosphere-- and the staircase
went silent without the African violets--
and no one ate pancakes and 
traded daffodils and the mother 
pressed the lips of Alien flowers
in the hopes her children would remember
what it was like to breath sugar
and talk foliage-- sent her 
love in grains breathed silent 
as a dandy lions losing their hair
before death-- making wishes for
themselves-- 
My brother and I would find the
Alien flowers out there--
walk into a mist barefoot before
the house had drunk enough coffee 
to remember anything but
the sound of falling lavender rock candy--
And my brother and I knew what the
flowers were saying 
because we used to talk in spearmint 
leaves and boil onion grass in the
microwave--   
She was so lonely out there--
bruised by satellites and calling
her children home with each petal--
she tells them she loves them even
if they give up her language of
flowers-- even if they only
return to take her picture--
even if they stop believing in sugar--
And the next day the Alien flowers are
gone and only my brother
I remember how carefully they 
spoke and how perfect each petal was
and how the whole yard was a 
cacophony of purple oven mitts--
She stirs us gentle with the stem
of another Alien flower and we wait
from a windowsill to 
count her stanzas in the dew again--
We speak Jupiter--
we eat spearmint and sugar--