I Name You --

 



I Name You

Anna –

 

The amaryllis is tipping

her brilliant crimson into

the desk.  Her curled

stamens, once bold-gold

 

are suffering into their own

dusts.  Some has already

let go to a halo surround,

their ‘come

 

and get me’ finger tips

lingering in impotence.

It’s been Christmas since.

There are six

 

remaining blooms &

I’ve turned the drying dying

ones to face the south-east

away from me. 

 

Such blunted hunger,

bulbed in her

ball of wax.  Dwarfed.

I wonder, when she is

 

finally spent, can I crack

that red wax trapping

her bulbs & set into her

a pending rescue?  Can I

 

find, over the course

of this next three seasons,

a savory soil she can expand

in, & spread the span

 

of her bulbed clavicles, her

rooted backbones into sybaritic

santana’d black, nudging up,

coming from nothing

  

but her own

mothere’d history,

the next new blooms,

sheathed in green

 

blood erupting in her

labor, crowning

to spread like a face

finally turned to the sun

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