This is not about
how she makes me cry.
It’s not even
about the tender heart, tied
to a secret, hidden
beneath her
white organza dress, unattainable
despite my teary efforts.
You see – this is about
her coming to ripeness in my garden,
a full moon rising
to the high throne. Indubitably she is
the queen’s picking, fattened virgin
bulb, green stalks
soon to flower. Overnight,
poignantly and nervously, she drags
her robe of white mist
in slow waltz, my sweet deb.
Come daybreak I will have to take her
out of her loam-perfumed
boudoir, and marry her off to the gentle
yellow bell pepper.
Originally published in Mount Hope, Issue 9, Spring 2016
SW Altair 