dry ice flower

i always wanted to be fragile. 
to keep the ghost in the window
without having to suck the flowers dry. 
we were only children 
with our faces made of salt.
every waterfall terrified me. i couldn't
drive yet but he could. we drove a nail
through an arcade. kissed each other
as if time had a go-cart in its throat.
i have since given up on cream. instead,
i thicken my broth with root.
the flower was briefly a world. a place
where we could have built a house
& had thousands of flies. 
then, a wrist going horrible. the ground.
the fires. a shattering enough to build
a religion. all the pieces, without
their stained glass. you could try 
for years to put that face back together.
still, there would be a fragment
gone to the underworld. one day i will
be a child again & reach it. open the door
to the crawl space where a snake
the size of the whole family has been
living on fruit. hungry & ready,
it descends. drags its belly across the floor.
swallows the flower & turns into a statue.
in the garden, everyone has a memory
of stone. my skin turned red
as a father hand. i had no water left
in my body. i was a blown curtain
& everything that followed.