Peony Run by Angie Macri

The peonies run, eyes beneath
the soil. They bloom for decades
planted well.

The cities where you live, do not forget.

My grandmother, my namesake, never left
New York, sliding bobby pins on cardboard
at home for wages, my father a child at the table
with her, working, putting a puzzle of metal
into place.

Her cancer was growing in spirals by then.

In the garden in St. Louis, Seiwa-en,
squared off in stone, along the water,
sweet heavy heads
of frost

cool even in spring. Cold on the face.
Press in.
Angie Macri’s recent work appears in Cream City Review and Moon City Review. An Arkansas Arts Council fellow, she teaches in Little Rock. Her chapbook Fear Nothing of the Future or the Past is available from Finishing Line Press.

If given the opportunity to live anywhere, Angie would choose a house in which you could see the sun rise from the bedroom and the sun set from the back porch — a house far enough from the city, so the stars would be clear at night — a house with a windbreak of trees to the north — a house surrounded by gardens of her design.

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