Joe@JoeMallon.ee • LinkedIn

 

000B

 

birthday

 

In evening I fetch flowers /

for my hostess’s birthday tea /

from the back yard. I think /

of brain history: choroid fissures /

of plaster of Paris: Kenyon’s cells /

an electric storm of earwigs, of circles /

dwindling to whorls /

whorls to lines, /

and so I trace the lines of my forehead /

and nose. I reach for a stem to behead— /

all-flower for my corsage. /

 

It-all looks at me, so as if to ask, /

“Lovely, please let me go?” /

 

“Let me go? Please let me /

reduce into bright bits unpedaled?” /

 

Firmest plant, the prettiest Gods, /

all willing me that one touch should be enough… “Let go, Love, /

of Your hold, Your turn, /

let Us pass. Turn, and drown.” •