Andrea Blythe



Two red roses frame
that afternoon—the way
I was going down hill. Me
always in the dark, as usual,
like a criminal. I touch my tongue,
promise to envelope you,
promise to stay. It was nothing
to do with pleasure. You at the door,
pushing. I crank back, blow smoke.
If I put a hand over your mouth,
I believe I could ascertain
the whole story. I’m authentic,
I remind myself, real as rain. I cut paper
and flowers—feeling ominous, warm
terror and revulsion. I’ve discovered
a neat long record of me wrapped
in the heart of a rock. Flowers
wearing a name. Flowers rolling
on and on. A strange word started
a fire and me laughing most
that afternoon—a stranger
arousing suspicions.



Note: This is a found poem created from King, Stephen, The Plant, Philtrum Press, page 22-24


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