Danusha Laméris
What are these strangers sitting on the table in their ruffled collars.
They open, close, open,
emit the scent of cracked pepper and honey. Magenta punctuation marks at which to pause. Pink commas against the green scrub. I would trade ten goats for one whiff of peonies opening in a vase. An ancient proverb says you should not let a woodpecker see you plucking a peony lest it peck out your eyes. We are afraid of happiness. Peonies are to loneliness what wind is to the trees. Are they animal? Mineral? Vegetable? They move as the sun moves. When I brought them home they were dark. Now, a whisper, balletic tulle. They are not diminished even as they turn to smoke.
No comments:
Post a Comment