Five leaves cup a tender flower,
petals layered over petals; deep
inside, seedlings not yet conceived
are protected by the blanket
of crimson velvet, reminiscent
of a vellux quilt: Perfection
that begs to be touched.

A sharp needle in the finger;
and a deep red liquid blossoms.
The same color grows from stem
and wound. The edges of the silken
petals curl back. Red matures,
rusts to black, breaking up --

What has happened?

You scissored the stem, changed
the water each day, crushed
the aspirin, just like Grandma said;
still, the last petals are floating
to the ground; the leaves droop
over the cracked glass table:
Only the thorns remain.

I.

our toes sift the smoke-seared carpet,
together. i watch them, twenty
white mice, burrowing into
nonexistent holes.

your toes
are next to my toes.

i can't believe you're here.

II.

still, i keep you at my throat;
still, i know the press of your lips;
still, the scar on my hip
is a magnet for your palm.

only one season has passed.

did we expect our bodies
to turn traitor
so soon?

III.

under vellux and linen,
we leave pools of heat:

every cell a sin,

we, the king and queen
of fire.