Nobody wants to be a wallflower, but there she is. Daphne. She sits along a stone wall under an ancient tree, purple bloom against strong green leaves, so dark they look like they are facing backwards, sunless. So bright in color. You’d never know she’d been hurt. A piercing does that to you. Crawls up your spine and does a flip. You don’t notice sadness. You don’t notice fantastic either or the smell of bay leaves seasoning the morning market beyond the nickel-pocked wall where Daphne clings above a wishing well as vast as the sea. Copper coins of hope, wishes scratched in the water, shimmering. But you don’t notice that either. A piercing does that. Diminishes somber. Obscures the suckers lonely and attached to sunken miracles. There’s no time for healing or faith even though the connections are there, are everywhere. Even though small freaks fix themselves to empty shells. Scared. You whirl around. Jump over the stone wall. Undeterred. Swing over and above. A bag of gelatin but for your bones.

Wait. Would you allow for a moment this inquiry? What if you were a wallflower, not the bearer of arrows? Would you dance? Paint a scene? Play music? Or would you succumb to your gut, visceral fear? Watch as you pierce another and another to the stone wall? Would you stab your will into their dreams, sunlight peering through the young oak leaves? Shade to Daphne. You pool your fragrance on the sea air, swirl it around like a carousel of color. Incongruity flows before you can quit. Become violet. A spray of purple. Shot of wind. Have a seat right here on this stone wall. Alone. Unquivering. A cup of yogurt in your hand. Rose yogurt. To dip your spoon into. You’d never thought of it before, but here it is. Rose yogurt. Notice now that you’re eating it, the water shimmering. Notice your feet dangling like a child’s. Arrows unstirred. Notice how the sun reflects green, how Daphne brushes your legs with her leaves.

Bio: Deanna Benjamin