Drugstore Carnations

They’re a purple you can’t find in nature, the CVS
price tag still affixed: 6.99. It’s true, purple is
my favorite color. It’s Mother’s Day, and my son
is handing me the scrimpy bouquet in the doorway
of his dad’s house, where I’m picking him up
for ice cream and two hours at the park.
His dad, who won’t speak to me, who hasn’t healed
from the hurt of me leaving. Like a broken leg
that never set right. Six years ago, I stood in a foot
of snow in front of a waterfall. The earth and sky
were frozen, but that water was running. I knew
I had to leave, to stop mothering this man,
now that I had a child to mother, and myself.
The water told me he would be ok—my son—
that we’d leave his dad and the world
would keep on moving. And the world has
kept moving, for us. His father? The man that
held me up under my armpits while I pushed,
and a waterfall came crashing out of me?
He still won’t look me in the eye. He just looks
through me like I’ve already died, tries to
disappear me with a glare. It’s Mother’s Day,
and my son is handing me emaciated flowers,
and his dad is standing in his kitchen with a beer,
leering. That stare. You can’t find it in nature.

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Julia C. Alter is the author of Some Dark Familiar (Green Writers Press), selected by Matthew Olzmann as the winner of the 2023 Sundog Poetry Book Award, and a finalist for the 2024 Vermont Book Award in Poetry. Her poems have been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize, and appear in numerous journals and anthologies. She lives in Vermont with her son.