Peonies
What are these strangers
sitting on the table in their ruffled
collars. They open, close, open,
emit the scent of cracked pepper
and honey. Magenta punctuation marks
at which to pause. Pink commas
against the green scrub.
I would trade ten goats for one whiff
of peonies opening in a vase.
An ancient proverb says
you should not let a woodpecker
see you plucking a peony
lest it peck out your eyes.
We are afraid of happiness.
Peonies are to loneliness
what wind is to the trees.
Are they animal? Mineral?
Vegetable? They move
as the sun moves. When I
brought them home
they were dark. Now,
a whisper, balletic tulle.
They are not diminished
even as they turn to smoke.
Copyright © 2026 by Danusha Laméris. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 1, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
“My mother was a scientist, and my family loved to tease me about a sixth-grade report card in which the teacher said that I had mastered the scientific method. Mastery or no, I loved the ordered exploration science could bring in a chaotic world, and as a poet, I love the way in which the world so seldom conforms to the shapes we offer it. Anyone who has kept cut peonies knows them to be active and alive and changing, brief as they are. Here I aim to speak to their mystery––and [to] ours.”
—Danusha Laméris
Danusha Laméris
