By the Flowers at the Supermarket
At the supermarket the floral woman asks me
if I need any help. Complicated question I reply,
and spend a few minutes dipping my face
into the dripping breath of the flowers.
I’m ready to be helped now I tell her
and she asks me what my intentions are.
I’d like the girl to see that I can have flowers
inside a big glass jar on my coffee table just to look at
and I don’t need them to be beautiful,
just a little scent in case she does not return.
Of course she knows which ones. Her picks
are quiet, subtle, barely looking like flowers.
The magenta I pick glows among the shades
of green and feathery gray. She lays the bunch
on tissue, ties them together. The serrated knife
wets its metal teeth on the lengths of stems
leaving the ends angled, open-mouthed.
originally published in Lo-Ball
At the supermarket the floral woman asks me
if I need any help. Complicated question I reply,
and spend a few minutes dipping my face
into the dripping breath of the flowers.
I’m ready to be helped now I tell her
and she asks me what my intentions are.
I’d like the girl to see that I can have flowers
inside a big glass jar on my coffee table just to look at
and I don’t need them to be beautiful,
just a little scent in case she does not return.
Of course she knows which ones. Her picks
are quiet, subtle, barely looking like flowers.
The magenta I pick glows among the shades
of green and feathery gray. She lays the bunch
on tissue, ties them together. The serrated knife
wets its metal teeth on the lengths of stems
leaving the ends angled, open-mouthed.
originally published in Lo-Ball
