Jul/Aug 2007 Poetry

He Brings Flowers

by Elizabeth Bruno

Photography by Kawika Chetron

He Brings Flowers

You brought petunias and hung them on my back porch,
their flower heads delicate as a suicide's wrist. You mentioned
the sun, how it wrinkles foliage like discarded basil, like spinach
stuck to a well-used salad bowl. I know about the sun's weighty
gifts, how tulips close each evening like a prayer's palm, then open
skyward as the daylight presses. Since you've left, I've grown fond
of twilight, of jasmine and primrose, of flowers only opening
at night; their redolence set free like new moths.


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