Day Sixteen

 

Tulips

He came in the evening with a plastic bag full of tulips. Exclaiming and joyful

I filled all the vases I have with armfuls of pointed buds.

Extravagantly I scatter lavish bunches all around the messy house. A jugful sits atop the piano casting shapely shadows onto the white wall.

A humbug striped jug hunches on the low table, white rimmed heads lolling and quivering as the children thunder by – mind my tulips joining the other regular cries of cottonwooling, carefulnow motherhood.

In the artificial warmth the petals splay – revealing speckled throats -panting – stamen trembling.

Tonight you’ve gone up to bed early, your book tucked under a purposeful arm and left me stranded on the sofa, idling, delaying, looking at my flowers preening under harsh fluorescent light.

Tulips always make me think of Sylvia. I say as much to you as I peel off my clothes.

About her – alone- in her room with the scarlet flame of her tulips. And the despair.

Too late now you say, frowning abstractedly, not really listening, turning your page.

Mutinous at the window I think, never too late for love – scowling into the night rubbing my thumb with a squeak against the wet glass.

Never too late. Never wasted.

and see it, wavering out into the night as

A drunken, laden bumble bee – gold dusted- drowsy.

Heavy with purpose, tracing an elliptical path into the sodium saturated sky.

Never too late.

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2 responses to “Day Sixteen

  1. This is not specific to this poem, though it works just as well here as anywhere else.
    I have a friend who’s trying to get a poetry radio show off the ground (she already has one for independent and unsigned music) – I don’t know whether you’d be interested?
    http://www.facebook.com/OdetoNowhere
    I’m going to recommend your blog to her anyway, because I know she’ll love it.

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