Mom said the name first.
Like it mattered.
Bleeding heart.
I thought,
that can’t be real.
Then she showed me
the plant.
Small red hearts.
Split open.
Like something trying
not to.
We put it in the yard
on 37th Street.
Next to nothing special.
Just dirt.
Just Iowa.
A week later,
I noticed the willow
in the backyard.
Weeping willow.
Same trick.
Name first.
Then the shape.
Branches hanging.
Like they knew something
I didn’t understand yet.
I started paying attention
to words that hurt
before they meant anything.
A year later,
I let my little girlfriend
cut my hair.
She butchered it.
Laughed.
Then cried.
Her dog,
out in the road.
I held her.
Didn’t know what to say.
Just stood there.
Bad haircut.
Dead dog
between us.
Figuring it out.
How things look
like what they’re called.
How sometimes,
they don’t.