- Vol. 03
- Chapter 12
![](https://visualverse.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/Werner-Steuernburg.gif)
Image by Werner Stuerenburg
Those Arpeggio Days
If we were flowers, we’d becrisp around the edges by now.
Fragile and bee-stung, holding
on to our last harmonic breath.
Grasping at last aesthetic hope.
This morning you said that you
finally understood the world.
It’s all a trick, you said,
it’s a Derren Brown trick, and
I hung on your every imperfect
breath, every implied hope.
But you’re still the same
unhinged daisy. Still squawking
at the world — hope does that
to reasonable people; turns them
into breathless flutter. Takes
them hostage, one tick at a time.
My father was peevishly suspicious
of the whole thorny world. Now,
there was a man who was never
hostage to anyone or anything.
Sadly, I take after my mother
who was forever holding her breath.