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.