Dahlia
In Jerusalem, I had my day
of roses—pink and parting
mother’s seedling child
A few months more and
there I bore a
poem: a slender lyric line
fine-boned like a bird
with an eye turned
upward perhaps
to the transcendent
In Jerusalem, I had my day
of roses—pink and parting
mother’s seedling child
A few months more and
there I bore a
poem: a slender lyric line
fine-boned like a bird
with an eye turned
upward perhaps
to the transcendent
Under blossoms
she palms overripe fruit
and rends berries
and dirt
beneath an anxious
toe
Eve is a fig
who startles the shade
and I am her shadow
who blushes
and winces
like a lemon between
her legs
