Читать книгу The Nine Senses - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 7

The Language of Flowers

I wish you were here on my arm. I wish I could crawl between your sheets. My Poppy. My Tulip Tree. My Sweet Basil. You are what I used to dream of as a child, what my mother did, not so much a dress as its fabric, pink dotted swiss, a white voile shirt with French cuffs. Tell me your name, what you seek, and to what you aspire. I will mount a campaign for your world. Magnolia, cloudy and thick, each petal the exact temperature of a hand. It is Saturday morning, we are living near lakes, luxuriant, privileged creatures that we are. Our authors say cypress is the favored tree of the earth. Say that flowers are the liturgy of the angels. Wings peeled back so they lift on the breeze. Centered, the golden ovaries bees feast on. Drunk as a young girl on the words of Dylan Thomas, I stagger in the streets of my small town, moonwalking the river, saying sun of our balled fruit, raw honey. I stick my fingers into the champagne flute of a lily. Everything bridal white becomes stained. I can’t help but be selfish being faithful to myself. Dabbing it behind the knees. Yes, frosting.