|Cherry Blossom (1905) John Reinhard Weguelin|
a product of a poisoning
is unblemished fruit
ripe for the picking.
He is hiding there,
hiding neath the woodpile
yet affords her a view of single eye;
he watches waiting
waiting as she fills her basket,
fills it with the want of him,
he a fuel for her fire.
Oh how she longs for warmth,
she his unfeathered maiden,
maidens who too young to burn,
bleed and sizzle, spit in protest,
until engulfed, they are consumed
in his awkward awful flame.
She waits wide-eyed
understands not what she sees.
A crisp December morning,
she clears the grate,
clears it for a new day
and he rises from the ashes.
He takes her there,
takes her in the cold of winter,
takes her there on winter’s table,
presses down and takes her there.
She bleeds but does not sizzle
spit in protest, rather succumbs
to warm breath warm hands,
from the closeness rhythm of his body.
(There is rhythm in belonging.)
She is fallen, fallen high from grace,
she falls as cherry blossom,
a pink confetti , a scattering
in a cemetery of childhood.
She is fallen yet somehow whole.
Shared with the good folk at Poets United – thank you Mary, and also at Open Link Night at dVerse hosted tonight by Joe - thanks to you too Joe.
Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons