Mother, Pressed

She instructs me in her vacant way
to identify the flower

by looking inside the blossom—
deep inside the blossom

to spy its waxy alchemy,
the sight of her pink

skirt and pointed yellow feet
flattened between two sheets

of translucent paper,
while at the same time

butterflies vie for her hair,
my shirt is stained

by pollen, her bosom
looms above my head

and a thought deep inside
the sun whites her face out.