The Other Flower;
Had she called off the wedding, hailed a taxi,
instead of falling into arms like lifeless
anemones—a taxi to run, run, run to some
other lifetime—would we still be restoring
the spots on this other flower, the other
horizontal? That the world then didn’t brew
your sadness upon an agar plate,
served to hundreds off of your menu of flux,
a song: archaic, & battle-born. Flailing wind,
her heart was made to be slid into, a heel off
the shoehorn, stretched by flashy footwork,
weathered and stomped to pieces. Broken
bones are the mess of her mosaic that drifts
like red rivers from her splintering.
And her’s is the name on the side of this
yacht, eh? The Marianna.
I plokí tis istorías.
She holds the carrier wave and reinvents
the light, expelling her ions. Another half
hour, she tans us all—baked in her medial
sun. Give her the day, she turns to liquid,
bobs, bleeds this meddled hearth.
And in the beginning was her, and her was
made flesh.