He arrives at my door with Stargazer lilies,
exotic tall flowers too erotic for us.
Named for nighttime, though we keep
to daylight hours, lest one of us gets ideas.
Three men now have brought me flowers,
each one uncertain in my doorway,
bouquet hanging at his side, embarrassed
by his own thoughtfulness, and I
by how easy I am to please.
I snip the stems and drop them in a vase,
wishing I could gush like a woman being wooed.
But this is a promise he can't deliver.
When he's gone I bury my face in them,
all night l breathe them in.
Flowers like these don't come up naturally,
these were cooed at, coaxed, cut off
at the knees. They tower over me,
block every view, spill their spicy perfume
as their heads dip in heavy half-swoons.
He should have chosen an easier flower,
something less prone to dramatic scenes,
quicker to die. Petals drop to the floor
where I let them lie.
Copyright © 2007 Tara Gorvine All rights reserved
from Tar River Poetry