Jade Ramsey

Jade Ramsey holds an MFA from Bowling Green State and currently teaches English and Creative Writing at Heidelberg University in Tiffin, Ohio. Many journals have published her work including: Gargoyle, REAL, Goblin Fruit, Old Red Kimono, I-70 Review, Stone Highway Review.


The Anger of Flowers

We bought fertilizer with little peach granules that resembled pustules before they bloom pink and white. We scrambled the dirt like eggs in the long pot on the windowsill and placed the seeds with the pimples and dark earth in the sun. But the window faced west and the fire tulips, poisoned with Botrytis blight, needed the early morning light. Instead they learned to lean on the lavender-mint sunset and the mango juice skies that darkened as thorns poked holes in the universe. And the tulips grew angry and didn’t know why we ignored them. The fine bristles thickened and burned on their stems, their necks, their heads and arms yearned for blood. And we didn’t know until the little, innocent one leaned out too far. The window was open and the air wafted so inviting. Her face wore no blemish and her hair felt like extra-virgin olive oil if it were braided in strands. But as she bent over the mouths of the flowers, they smelled her purity and thought she was a gift, an apology for our negligence. They accepted it and enjoyed her rivers and her meat and her thoughts and her voice and the day-break in her eyes. The dirt we’d planted was stained. And our little one’s cries were heard too late. The flowers forgave us for placing them in poverty. But we didn’t speak the tongue of tulips, and we misunderstood again. We threw them from the sill. And they fell from the window so many stories high, trusting now that we were doing what was best for them.

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