I learned the names of wildflowers 
at summer nature day camps
A city kid raised around pigeons 
squirrels and chipmunks 
I knew mainly dandelions and lilacs
Roses were in other people’s gardens 
or outside sanitarium windows 
and detox centers while visiting relatives 

I was never caught in the spider web
of such haunting blue facilities 
I escaped with a collection of anxieties 
I’ve kept in a notebook 
it bleeds sometimes 
or vomits a mishmash of nonsense 
I use it sometimes to hide behind 
a carnival skeleton that has no heart

Once those relatives died
or were otherwise buried 
I took up the meaning of flowers —
yellow for promised fidelity
the white of virgin purity
soon overtaken and strangled 
by red for unbridled passion
I became Wordsworth-like 
believing nature is beneficent 
I was so young back then

Now I study mushrooms 
learned my ex-mother-in-law
died from her husband’s gift
of chanterelles that weren’t
I grow carnivorous plants
that close on a black widow
or fill cups with a sweet scent 
to call beetles to their drowning
I’ve made a friend of dark botanicals 

The black petunias and dead-man fingers
caress the grave in the eastern corner 
Voodoo lilies dance the twist 
with limbless naked ladies 
I sit on the porch chair 
watch the raven 
pull apart fresh roadkill 
It brought a daisy in its beak
an offering before the feast
Wilted petals drying on asphalt 
all that remains after an hour
The black widow succumbs 
to the poison bars of flytrap
I swirl the redness in my wineglass 
and wonder why it took so long
for her to die

[Diane Funston has been published in journals including California Quarterly, Lake Affect, F(r)iction, Tule Review, San Diego Poetry Annual, among others. She served two years as Poet-in-Residence for Yuba-Sutter Arts and Culture Her chapbook, “Over the Falls” was published by Foothills Publishing in 2022.]