Josie Price
O my brother if ever you were a flower You are
one of these: signature orange coif atop
skinny solitary stalk, bright face
opened like a hand
toward the God-
sun, perennially.
Corolla closed
as a fist
in cold,
in wind,
in night.
Cup of gold,
cup of sunlight–
I congregate sprigs
for your gravesite. Petals
flaxen banners blazing through
cement clefts at every street corner
in the city where your hand opened and
closed on mine one last time. I sense you now
under my soles. I will never stop looking for proof of your life.