Narcissus Apologia

by Ann Humphries

Yellow narcissus preen in fresh mounded beds

strutting lemon banners, fanfare for spring.

Aren’t we pretty against winter’s stiff gray?

Yellow becomes our sable-haired mother,

our father gleams in his canary tie.

But jonquils are toxic if ingested.

Sister, you infuse our gentle elders with poison words,

lash them with calculated cruelty.

You screamed at me, slammed the door,

sprayed gravel like bullets from a getaway car.

You threw papers at us in the hospital,

and when Dad came home, anemic and weak,

you pointed your finger and lunged at all of us,

frightening us enough to dial 911.

You left Mom in the black sedan in hundred-degree heat

to open the safety deposit box to initial

she promised her diamond earrings to you.

You thought you could transfer her, but she slid

to the garage floor and you rolled her on a blanket

to pull her up the ramp into their house.

You drowned in margaritas, tried to fight me

outside the restaurant, and threw up in my car.

You accused me of stealing, called me a liar,

even as you dared me to tell, It’s your word against mine.

You sent those ugly texts, hung-up on my husband,

forbade me to contact your daughters.

You lost your temper

at the family conference with the priest

and declared, I divorce this family.

I feel you need therapy.

You claim being the victim. You shout and storm to anesthetize yourself

against the thick understory of our alleged indifference,

Who planted these beautiful daffodils? You did.