Numbered by Devan Barlow
40 lines
Issue 7 (Spring 2025)
The first time a flower sprung
from beneath my nails I
tore it away, terrified
Soon it was palm-crushed
pressed into a pocket
as I hoped the man I’d
just been introduced to
hadn’t noticed the
pale blush bloom
with seven petals
Seven days later
he died
coincidence, I told myself
Surely death cares naught
for nail-blooming flowers
crushed by frantic fingers
The next twelve men
I was presented to
as a rare, valuable curio
all heralded surgings
of stamens through my skin
All twelve died
lasting only as many
days as numbered
by a flower’s fast-dying
petals once torn from
my skin, remembered
only by the faint itching
of a quick-healing
wound
You, my love
have never seen my
hands without their
gloves, never counted
promise-heavy petals
I’ve kept yours
so very safe
you’ve nothing
nothing
to fear
