Paging Irina

Paging Irina

Pressed lilies lie flat in the dark pages
of yesterday~~
petals softened into the grain of ink and time,
melding with the page,
tracing the shape of my name
in faint, stubborn relief.

This morning the sheet cracked~~
fingers first, breaking the seam,
then wrists, then the stubborn crown of my head
pushing through the crease
where will met paper.

I rise,
stem straight,
leaves wet and green,
petals splitting open
yellow-hearted, shamelessly bright.

No more carrying ghosts.
I am the bloom~~
sprung from a page
that swallowed the book whole.