Delicate

In 1916 Helen Keller and Peter Fagan were briefly, and secretly, engaged.

Fear unfurls in her throat
like Mother’s peonies—
how they open and open,
hands inside of hands.

And heat curls her hair
into angry bees, leaves welts
at her jawline. Her skirt,
layered like the peony,
complicates walking. Yet she loves
what is complicated:
dresses with masses of ribbon,
others’ hands at her back,
the intricate wheels and rods
of a typewriter, keys
that fit her fingers like petals.

Mother hates the smell
of oil and ink. She told
Mother once that she loved
best the flowers
with velvet tongues,
how they leave sex
on her fingertips.
Pistil, pestle, piston.
She presses her open palm.

You’ve ripped your dress again,
Mother says, the words
on her lips like molting skin.
She takes each word in hand,
imagines crushing
pinecones, eggshells.