By Hilary King

If you harvest the hydrangeas 
that cloister by the church,
sneaking in like sin, your blades sharp 
as a mother’s eye,
prepare for daily baptism.
At home these beloved blooms 
will turn on you, weeping brown tears, 
shriveling like widows.
Drowning your best defense. 
Hydrangea means water vessel,
stolen from the Greek.
Beauty free or borrowed
requires maintenance.
Flood every petal. 

~~~

Originally from the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, Hilary King is a poet now living in the San Francisco Bay Area of California. Her poems have appeared in Ploughshares, One Art, Salamander, Fourth River, and other publications. She is an editor for DMQ Review and has been nominated for multiple awards. Her book Stitched on Me was published by Riot in Your Throat Press in 2024.