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Hydrangea

I ease pink through blue.
I sulfur black and pluck yellows to keep greens.
Stamen hide under white unions.
I feed buds into being
and untangle.

Pink to blue,
nutrients can squeeze their way shut.
Hands might turn the child,
chart last beats,
rub feet,
blame the cord,
mother the blame.
Eyes might shift, cross, close,
breasts swell, breaths time.

I can stare perlite into stars
to imagine what meaning is like.

I can make time.

I can water this plant, I can starve it,
I can prune its speckled leaves
and bind its roots to stop it.
The clay can hold.
I can raise these blooms.

T.J. Moretti is an English professor who studies early modern English drama and teaches a wide variety of literature at Iona College.