By Charlene Fix

There's logic to the scene. The man
whose bones are currency, whose scalp
was born divorced, grins at the little girl
filling his knuckly resurrected hands
with flowers. His eyes, hosed to heart, mist.
"Boat," she says, tossing one, then another, plop,
to the water's brink. Oiled like ducks and
splayed like little suns, they float. And his brain
struggling against worm damage and
unaccustomed thoughts, his cold entropic nature
warming at the fire of the child, he falls into giddiness.
So he lifts her in his arms. What can he gather
himself together to know? She's flower, light.
Light glances off the water. Flowers float.