don’t blossom here, flower,
close up, go back inside. don’t reach,
for your sun, don’t open your petals
wide. don’t smile, or believe, or
speak your fuschia dreams.
he’ll pick you if you bloom just right,
grip you, rip you, wilt your hue,
until a lovelier one blooms, and he will
drop you. pick her. pick her. pick her.
you’ll be lying on the ground, with no
way to grow. wither. hold your blooms,
dear flower, let him pick no more.
How did she taste, when I was writing poems for you?
Was her bed warm, did you sing to her, too, while I waited
in silence for you? Did you look behind or ahead or only
in her eyes? Was the press of her flesh all you needed
to feel alive? Were my words tossed aside like last weeks
trash, while you cherished her body, and I walked alone
outside? Did you wonder what it meant as you sighed in
release, the waves of torment you set on the seas? Or do
you owe nothing to no one and your body is free? Do you
realize that your body will never claim me?
secrets like a tree torn of leaves,
each one a truth untold, even
the desperate grip of branches
could not stop the fall. sun stares,
demands honesty, reveals deceit
in her glare. his wooden arms
are no match for her golden gaze,
so all of it falls, half-truths and lies,
and he becomes bare, only bony
fingers of regret, reaching out,
as if she would forgive. she covers
her eyes in clouds and turns away.
Talking to the Clouds 