Skip to content

flowers, always :: cate marvin

by on October 8, 2016

Inexplicable, the sign outside a deli scrawled
                            and below that: ALWAYS.
But there were no flowers. And I have never
seen an Always. I would like to,
                                      and I have looked.
I have kept my eye keen
                                for Always, have liked
its idea like an expensive purse, coveting it as
it appears,
          riding the arms of rich ladies who are
so very lady.                  I’ve rolled on velvet
          cushions where I heard Always slept,
and I once tried to kiss Always,
              but I don’t think it was the Always
I was looking for.
I like your Always, it looks
such a demanding pet. It looks like it kisses
nice and soft.
                    It looks like the bruise I found
flowering on my knee.
                            I fell down at your voice.
Not to worry, I got right back up, walked ten
more blocks
                and by then I was halfway home.
I knock my knees blue
                                and scabbed crawling
toward you, wanting flowers,
                        and always, always, always
to slide against the cold vinyl of a car’s seat,
your pale hands
                      on the bare backs of my legs,
that’s one Always I want, and whoever knew
there were so many species
                        of Always? Your bare hands
on the pale backs
                        of my thighs, printing bruise,
and if you said Flowers, said Always and we
could erect a forever
                              of something like sheets
                      and breakfast and an ordinary
day, my eyes would
            always slide across the table toward
        to warm their twin marbles in your palm,
my face would flower
                      for you daily, so that when we
die, roses might petal
                          themselves out our throats.
Fragment of the Head of a Queen (2007), via AP


From → poems

Comments are closed.