here first. until we are there.

the melodramatic stance.

The tulips at that perfect place

crane their necks with liquid grace

like swans who circling, collide

within the lake this vase provides.

They stood like soldiers, stiff, before

as if they had been called to war.

In two days more, when petals fall,

I will entomb them in the hall

with trash; the morning’s coffee grinds,

old newspapers, and lemon rinds.

It’s bitter that such loveliness

should come to this,

could come to this.

But now their purpleness ignites

the room with incandescent lights.

Their stamens reach their yellow tongues

to lick the air into their lungs

through stems attached to whitish manes.

The pistil stains.

And even though there are no bees

about the room for them to please,

I take them in like honey dew-

and buzzing now,

I think of you…

I think of you who bought me these,

at least,

I wish you had,

as that might ease the ache

of passing hours.

A love is dying, like these flowers.

“The Tulips” by Ricky Ian Gordon.

the rhyme just heightens the melodrama. this is for larry. for some reason.

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One response

  1. oh my gad, i like have the perfect picture for this poem, and yes, it goes out to larry too. will email!

    December 14, 2009 at 5:43 pm

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