there’s a farmer upstate (really,

it’s east from here) who cultivates

mustard

just for the flowers. it’s a shame, he

says, no one wants them once

they’ve bolted. bolted, as in locked

up. bolted, as in ran away.

the flowers smell

of question and earth

and the farmer, the one upstate,

puts them in jars and old mugs

and his wife asks when he’ll get

a job. get, as in

seize. get, as in succumb.

the good-morning-yellow flowers bloom

up between floorboards and

bristle down from ceiling fan fixtures

and last time i checked you

can’t make mustard gas from the

actual plants but believe me

if they got

ahold

of this farmer, the one i know,

they’d try.

Claire Heinzerling is a trans writer living in Colorado. She writes because it reminds her to breathe.