I 

thornbush 

I 

Dinner phone call 

I 

Myrtle 

All surplus flesh and perceptible vitality, Not enough, 

And too much. 

It was his flowers I wanted. 

I could smell it on your lapel, 

That artificial world redolent with orchids, daisies with powder yellow dust. 

Or perhaps it was just his cologne? 

I am sorry that 

I am not smooth around the edges, 

I am not 

Sad 

And lovely, 

I cannot blossom at your touch 

In incarnation, 

My voice not, 

A singing compulsion, 

Cannot offer you promises. 

But the flowers, 

I will press them into the patterns of my dress, Sanctify petals against my stomach, 

Let their stems hemorrhage into my veins, Until they blossom into that blue garden among the whisperings 

Of champagne and the stars. 

Do not forget– 

Not even thornbushes can grow from these ashes. 

I am sorry, 

That this is how it ends. 

Here on this desolate path of fruit rinds

and discarded flowers, 

My lips parted in culled syllable, 

In this foul dust that collects– 

Your name falling to its knees 

In my throat, 

A prayer: 

Tom dear, 

It’s a shame that only the living 

Can see the blooms