Hothouse bouquet walking, Jacaranda lips—are these our sisters?
Tendrils of hair locked in pre-bloom caress the napes of these, our sisters.
Legs and arms become stalks and stems—we abuse metaphor, but ruffled
frames and wrought iron ribbons little disguise the bones of our sisters.
Once called goddess of mercy, men came to gaunt whores in brothels,
now they walk Avenue Montaigne, these flower-selling scarlets, our sisters.
Flaming aqua organza shaped into bells, tulle explodes from tiny waists,
faces walled with green plastic shimmer, our asymmetry hidden from our sisters.
Divided, we watch autumn-belying pastel sheathes evoke withered sprays,
store-bought carnations when we want Delores, orchids from these, our sisters.
We cannot see the field beyond cut flowers, the blue meadow of our dreams,
only dropped petals from last season decompose on the hips of our sisters.
These blossoms for the rich, red fever, bloodlust for ire posies reveal
our autistic savant: we cannot excuse such beauty, even from our sisters.
Tendrils of hair locked in pre-bloom caress the napes of these, our sisters.
Legs and arms become stalks and stems—we abuse metaphor, but ruffled
frames and wrought iron ribbons little disguise the bones of our sisters.
Once called goddess of mercy, men came to gaunt whores in brothels,
now they walk Avenue Montaigne, these flower-selling scarlets, our sisters.
Flaming aqua organza shaped into bells, tulle explodes from tiny waists,
faces walled with green plastic shimmer, our asymmetry hidden from our sisters.
Divided, we watch autumn-belying pastel sheathes evoke withered sprays,
store-bought carnations when we want Delores, orchids from these, our sisters.
We cannot see the field beyond cut flowers, the blue meadow of our dreams,
only dropped petals from last season decompose on the hips of our sisters.
These blossoms for the rich, red fever, bloodlust for ire posies reveal
our autistic savant: we cannot excuse such beauty, even from our sisters.
