Tuesday, May 30, 2006
"The Killing of a Flower Births a Woman"
“The Killing of a Flower Births a Woman”
You remarked on his
Both our heads pressed into pillows,
in the morning, or, more likely, the
early afternoon, of a Saturday
Without a doubt, your eyes
are sunflowers—the yellow eclipsing
the green, with exposure to light,
(and the narrowing of a
centered darkness), you said to me,
looking long in my eyes.
I blanched. Accompanied, surely,
by a small sucking of breath.
You yielded to his ghost.
He called me ‘Sunflower,’ I said.
My mind tearing through months
I spent craning my neck, tracking
his emblazoned sky-trail,
bowing my yellow petaled head at the darkness:
his (omnipresent) absence.
I called him ‘Sun,’ and fancied him,
Apollo. Salvation Eternal, Romance—
A Cloud-spun Cradle of a god.
In early fall, when god fell,
my blossoms dried,
withered, and were cast in the fire.
My spirit: elusive, vaporous,
as smoke rising from the fields,
or metal forged in fires,
sank under lit-orange autumn trees.
And I acknowledged the irony,
the appropriateness, of this flower-metaphor.
I plead release, and was found,
fallen into your bed by spring (a phoenix).
May the flower sink into the ground?
I blinked, against remembrance,
rolled away from you, across sheets,
to face a shadowy wall,
not the light of a window.
My crooked spine, straightened,
and wordless, spoke a lesson to you:
Never again will I descend to the being
of a sunflower,(once I am made woman,
forged in self-love, and too tall for craning.)