My Guy

eyes look upon the flower,

and it is no longer a flower.

it has become, at once;

.

kisses in the dark, and swelling red lips,

like so many folds of a rose,

or is it flesh?

.

at once glove white petals, in the wind, falling all about

in kamikaze flight,

committing Death on the pavement

.

at once her hair, and the smell of sweet love,

but with a hand-picked, light pink exotic,

in the bun now, resting, outcast.

.

it is, at once, my An,

smothered in hospital linen,

but happy, oh yes, quite happy, for the flowers!

the flowers in the garden bright where the army ants raged up both their invading legs,

and him begging, begging-

.

then the comforting fingertips of a girl in a floral dress,

soft, tremulous, of loving, loving- but essentially nothing,

like a meaningless print on the back of a hastily bought Valentine card,

as meaningless as an orchid on a dollar note, abused, like a true patriot-

claws in the air- for the bride has thrown the bouquet, presently, yes,

high up, thrown it out of sight, like that baseball, not soon forgotten, and the vase-

.

oh the vase! petal pandemonium that was,

falling like, like- American Beauty, in sweaty sweaty desire,

wait, though, all play, of course, all play-

.

forgotten origami game, never played since 12 years young,

then the painting, in a clinic where he hung his head down while she she cried-

cried and cried and cried and cried and wallpaper like Gilman all yellow but flowery;

goading her as she sat inert but was in fact an ocean of deep sounding trouble,

walking in and out of dark dreams;

amongst smiles that followed lilies,

tulips, daffodils, lavenders, daisies,

and rose after rose after rose after-

.

it is, at once,

the edelweiss on a dead Romeo,

clinging desperately to his chest,

as the last agreeable scent in the whole bloody affair.

.

.

.

eyes look upon the young man.

and he is no longer.

he has become, at once.