Bad Flowers
A poem by Laura McCullough
In the dark, the smell of flowers
invades when I least expect it,
like little kisses on my cheek hollows
or on the curve of jaw betraying
one small vein — underneath this, it admits,
I am alive and something is working —
the signifier, this one blue line, like a stamen
jutting erect and powdery from its bowl
of petals. Don't believe this: bad flowers?
Betraying kiss? Small vein? The gyre,
sliding out of ourselves into the blue-black
lake of consciousness; we are not alone.
This helix divides and flowers break
attracting bees to do their job.
This is not a riddle. Flowers are bad.
Kisses do betray. Veins are importantly
unimportant in the schematic of the whole,
and through each must pass the small,
and if those elements could not pass,
if that bee was not attracted, if that kiss
did not occur, what grief will not be allowed,
what flowering of your life won't blossom,
or die into the next phase, the sting of this
the fare for where you must finally arrive.
Copyright 2006 by Laura McCullough
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