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      October 2, 2009MitosisAmanda Blue Gotera

      When things have bloomed, my mother
      teaches me to hunt out the dead
      blossoms that are no longer veined
      and furled open but coiled dryly
      over floret and anther, delicate threads
      in withered prayer.

      Daughters learn the ritual twist of neck
      on stem, how easily a pattern
      can be broken. They learn to tear
      from the seam, to expose green
      and play the trick so each may partake
      a little longer in the nectarine pages
      of lily, of stamen, of every sweet thing.

      You must pluck our papery
      skins before we go to seed,
      before we repeat ourselves completely.
      Partial helix. Idle spindle. We do not
      wholly fill our rhythms. Instead
      we must don our lip-thin petals again
      and again, shed our weathered slips or else
      bear that promised tithe.

      We come apart and apart
      and relive the same season
      the same false spring.

      from #24 - Winter 2005