by Leah Stenson

This morning, their heads are drooping. A few days ago when I trimmed their stems and slipped them into a crystal vase, their petals were spiky, fire-engine red and orange. Now, their points are limp. I don’t want to discard them. They remind me of you—fire incarnate—still burning inside me.

Copyright © 2021 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.