The Name That Wouldn't Come

It was a flower, I know that much.

Something my grandmother grew,

clustered, a soft, pale touch

of summer, dew-streaked, new

in her old clay pots. And it sat,

just behind my teeth, a stone,

a pebble, smooth and flat,

that wouldn't be overthrown.

I wrestled with it, hours, days,

tried to snag it from the air,

in every conversation's haze,

I felt its shadow, just not there.

Then, hands in soapy water, sink

full of plates, the scent of lemon,

it surfaced, a sudden, bright pink,

simply: 'Bleeding Heart'. And then gone

again, just as quickly, the name

holding no weight, just a brief

release from the quiet, burning shame

of a mind that wouldn't grant relief.