The Finale of the Flower

The Finale of the Flower

Peg jumped.
She left a note,
and if she hadn’t,
we may not have known
that Peg jumped.

Perhaps Peg believed she would fly,
that some strange legion of invisible fans,
the only ones who could afford to see her,
would clap their hands
in some mad, tempestuous hysteria
bringing upon her a bubble of light
that would raise her up,
suspending her above the fickle twinkle
of a wicked, diamond-hearted town.

The allure of shiny things
had become tasteless,
offending her, taunting her,
rupturing her delicate convictions.
The mood was heavy, and she
could barely lift her head,
as the idea she’d had of herself
had been brutally beaten by
dismissive lovers and other players.
Each breath she took belonged to them,
despite their indifference to the possession.

There had been other sacrifices,
before this last one,
each breaking something under her skin,
cracking her gently,
making only small noises,
like the gentle snap of a candy stick,
which no one but she could hear.

Land lights sparkled
like half-dead falling stars,
before everything went black,
but, sweet Peg had reinvented herself.

She’d emptied it all,
down the side of Mount Lee,
opening the earth, and planting it,
unaware that it would grow,
into something deathless.

This greatest performance
had gone unseen,
the final curtain falling without ovation,
and somehow, the failed starlet
began to shine,
as soon as she hit the earth.

Tangled blonde hair,
and a broken, bloodied face,
gave birth to a shining luminary,
earning her grace,
reviving her slowly,
as the breath of spring does a perennial flower.
A silver-lit legend had been born,
of the death of an unsung damsel.

Peg jumped,
but she left a note.
She jumped
and did not fall,
yet the difference is impalpable, at best.

Poor Peg,
her weakest moment was
her single, finest act.