Lessons From a Bougainvillea

Written by Holly King

Here is what they don’t tell you.

That through idle hands we must kill.

My sister gave me this warning five

years ago while she pruned

her bougainvillea in the garden.

She held shears in one hand,

steaming black coffee in the other.

With deft fingers, she shaped

her prison of briars into a graceful

arch around her front porch.

A sage watering can lay

forgotten in the dirt.

“Bougainvillea only bloom

when they’re about to die.”

Her tone was matter-of-fact.

As though willful negligence

was just as routine as writing

a scribble in my moleskine

every Tuesday afternoon.

But there the carcass lay -

Starved & Dormant

A husk of violent thorns

that bloomed blood

on my fingertips as it choked

on tears long dry. Against

all odds: magenta life.