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 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.

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