I saved one rose-worth of petals
from my grandmother’s funeral
arrangement, dried them between sheets
of wax paper, pressed in an atlas.
aging dim red like scabs. They
seem something to be saved,
but also best forgotten.
I could tuck them in
the flannel lining of a sleeping
bag, toss in restless sleep
beneath her UP’s Aurora Borealis.
Or slip them in my glovebox,
smuggle them across
the Rainbow Bridge to Canada, toss
them out the window into raging
Horseshoe Falls—let them make
their own luck. I could crush
and brew them into
tea, dip dye my baptism dress,
wring the excess
into a thermos, spike
it with brandy, for a walk
in her winter pine woods
at dawn. There would
be cold cold air
there. There
would be the whisper of
starlight through needles.