Valentine'sNo zucchini flower, fecund work complete,
to pass through lightest batter
and crisp in new- pressed olives’ oil,
nor tomato red as lips
to shoot warm burst of juice and seed
from crushing teeth to tongue,
nor sun-burned limbs to stride bare
into chill rivers,
nor perfume of August grass fresh-cut for seed
to rise on evening air.
Instead, months of cabbages and broccoli
bred for winter hardy heads
but never ripened fruit,
and squash of thick skin, hard dry flesh
and seeds to toast for nuts,
and skin chafed raw by woolen
to find relief in flannel sheets,
and homey scents: simmering stew and wood-fire smoke
to lull with familiarity
in long dark evenings stuck indoors.
Out of reach of tree-ripe fruit
so recently had for the plucking,
the winter heart—fearful—fails in faith,
thinks to hoard the lively lust, takes Cupid’s shape,
shoots arrow of possession to poison passion
with romance: “I desire you; you will belong to me.”
Out of bored capacity rise crushes,
bubbles of ridiculous desire
to be possessed, enrapt, to wrap round lover’s limbs
for no real purpose but to fill an emptiness;
which bubbles, bursting,
loose entangled mismatched pairs
to torture themselves to couple
or, broken-hearted, part. |
