by Lana Hechtman Ayers
He says he loves me and keeps reading the sports section.
I say to him, Passion is a budding rose.
“Spring training is almost over,” he says.
Green, guarded at first,
then explosive—bursting, brilliant, sensual, perfumed.
He turns a page. “Bruins are down to fifth in the division,” he says.
Petals so soft, they make you cry, I say. Opening further, further.
“That reminds me,” he says, “we need toilet paper.”
The color fades, I say.
“Then buy the white,” he says.
The petals wrinkle, drop, leave just a shaft of thorns.
He says, “Got to call my mother today.”
I say, Compost.
From Love Is a Weed, Georgetown, Kentucky: Finishing Line Press, 2006, page 7. I’ve been pleased to curate the monthly SoulFood Poetry Night in Redmond, Washington with Lana Hechtman Ayers since July of 2006.
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