Читать книгу The Nine Senses - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 17

Ophelia among the Flowers

after Odilon Redon

The body is full of cadences. The garden, in fact. A party, by which I mean candles. Dresses, yes, because it is inside them we want to be, weighing nothing, hair in our eyes, running up the steps to meet a lover. One begins with salutation, something all the old cultures knew. Good night. Good morning. You are a gift to me. One welcomes the ostracized back into the fold by reciting a list of their good deeds. An eyelid closed in sleep might hide the color of this hollyhock, a dark pink silk batiste. Poppy, bright amulet of the blood. But who are these flowers? My friend has died, is dying, might die. I sit in the garden under clouds. Long enough to watch the petals detach in the wind, flutter like fish after touching ground. O, you must wear your rue with a difference, mild and soiled, like silk in heat. Baby’s breath twisted through my hair.