We could taste summer that year,
the air sweetened by the gardenias.
White blooms, small cups of milk—
my sister and I danced with them in our hair.

The air sweetened by the gardenias,
the old house forbidden and sour inside,
my sister and I danced, white blooms in our hair
as Papa lay dying, melanoma cut from his back.

The old house, forbidden and sour: inside,
he moaned, deep and black like the night.
As Papa lay dying, melanoma cut from his back,
we picked gardenias, puddles of cream in our hands.

He moaned, deep and black like the night,
but days before—our memories thick as honey—
we picked gardenias, puddles of cream in the hands
of a gardener, blue gloves touching the blossoms.

Days before and our memories thick as honey
followed us into the back room one afternoon.
A gardener, blue gloves touching the blossoms:
he took our hands and smelled the gardenias.

Following us into the back room one afternoon,
white blooms, small cups of milk.
He took our hands and smelled the gardenias.
We could taste summer that year.