The neighbor rips them out
in impatient, ungentle handfuls.
They hang their heads,
dangling from his fist,
roots that moments before grew
unsuspecting, in moist, cool soil, now
yanked up, indecently exposed,
soil trailing on perfect lawn,
falling away like a shameful secret,
the secret being that they bloomed
where they were not planted.
“What are they?” I ask, and he spits
over his shoulder, “Mexican petunias,”
as though the Mexicans are responsible
for this too. “They’re weeds. Invasive.”
What do you have against them?
I want to ask,
but his eyes are angry, he
the violated one.
My lawn, not theirs, through gritted teeth,
as though they weren’t the last shade
of purple before periwinkle,
illuminated from within,
unbearably bright by day,
and by nightfall erased,
like all waking dreams.