Flowersun by Irène Mathieu one afternoon in the year of fascism the grocery store for some reason is full of young Black men buying flowers. slim bouquets held in their delicate hands, their necks – the men’s and the flowers’ – angled toward the light, their eyes glowing with love, I think I see my son among them, though he’s still in diapers, too young yet to walk or say my name. I imagine each of these men, steady in their purpose, on their way to present the farm-grown roses or carnations to a mother, lover, father, ailing neighbor, or Nana, and I think of how when I dressed my baby boy in a hand-me-down onesie covered with lacy petals the other night his sister delighted and we called him Flowerson as he beamed to be admired so. I say a quick pantheist’s prayer that one day he’ll be among them – the noble, brave and brown-skinned men who scan plastic-wrapped blessings in the self-checkout line and move lithely beyond the automatic doors, chins pointing toward the horizon, floating above the noise of other shoppers on their phones and car radios announcing military news, not dissuaded, not unhappy, not beholden – but in love in some way or another, and walking in the light of it righteously as a peony unfurling.
★ Read our interview with Irène on Interrogating Motherhood & The Human Experience ★








what a lovely and delicious piece ... thanks for sharing this one.
Incredible way to start my day. Thank you!