Flowers on the bedspread
I used to be a certain way.
The flowers on the bedspread were mostly unnoticed,
Ordinary yellow blooms with a fold here and there,
Ordinary yellow blooms with a fold here and there,
and crinkled petals on days when the bed was left unmade.
They lay scattered in disarray,
and there never was an incessant itch in my veins
to pluck them out,
order and align them, like military men in a parade.
They lay scattered in disarray,
and there never was an incessant itch in my veins
to pluck them out,
order and align them, like military men in a parade.
In rows of horizontals
and columns of verticals,
'Wouldn't they look fine?'
The leaves erect, would face the west
while the bright petals opened to the east.
Uniformed soldiers in yellow,
marching in stillness, rooted to the cotton knots in the mattress,
hidden underneath the duvet.
Look closely now.
In a circle, they could make a lovely headband,
strung together with beads of pearls
Or maybe a condolence wreath for this sorry fool
that wishes to discipline the flowers on her bedspread!
Sitting in the midst of it,
Hair knotted up in a bun that cushions a mosquito carcass;
A muffin, a pile of books, chocolate wrappers and a lunchbox
encircle her on the bed..
begging to be put away.
But no! God forbid those flower patterns should mock her !
This woman of poise and wisdom
strives to arrange the flower patterns on her bedspread,
those rebellious blooms spread across in every which way!
PC-Picasso's Guernica
What a beautiful poem!
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteReading this poem felt deeply familiar to me. I’m at a stage where marriage has become a quiet, constant pressure, and this poem captures that tension without ever stating it outright. The flowers on the bedspread felt like my own life — scattered, imperfect, resisting neat arrangement, yet always being imagined into rows and columns by expectation.
ReplyDeleteThe urge to discipline the flowers mirrors the urge I recognize in myself: to appear settled and intentional even when my path has been nonlinear. The military imagery exposes how unnatural and exhausting that kind of order can be when it’s imposed rather than chosen.
What stayed with me was the self-awareness. The speaker knows the fixation is absurd, even mocks it, yet still feels compelled to perform it. That contradiction feels honest and familiar. By the end, the flowers remain rebellious, and that refusal felt less like failure and more like relief.
This poem didn’t explain my experience — it simply reflected it. And that made me feel quietly understood.
Beautiful ❤️
ReplyDelete