III: A Bowl of Blood
“Summer in the city / I’m so lonely, lonely, lonely.”
Ripe, full-bodied, firm peel, underneath the sweetest
and the coolest fruit: my patience, paid off. Pressed
to fullness, bulging like a pregnant pause: the still air
for the entrance. Season previous bequeathed the process-
first the first sprout, then the upward dividends, and now this harvest:
from the gym equipment into summer’s black dress
cool and sweet! the shimmer when I entered,
when I moved the air into the party!
All the boys were gasping on that first night, “Who is she.”
and wishing they could breathe at least or drink beside me.
Patience, hard work in the preparation only for the garden parties-
all the best were rooftop garden parties. Only
cold fruit for those parties, never the raw stuff. We
saved the raw stuff for some off-work in the midweek
or some other season. Even
at the garden parties men would seem to listen
and the women there befriended
other girls. Amidst remained
a table hewn of granite where the bravest
dice clicked. Even at our midweek parties. Rocking ships. And who
complained about crops. Who.
Passing ships, the masts. What semaphores.
We’d tumble down in joy before
the dawn the stairs we’d climbed the night before.
We met one night at a garden party, you and me,
on a night most beautiful for cryogenic fruit. We
got the romantic stoppers in the bottles of our lives right.
Cautious, cautious weeks of wind confirmed it. To and fro. This night,
said friends one night, is ripe to start the freezing Rite.
Aurelia gathered up the chicken
bones she needed, and Lord Goodwin, sage; and when
they nodded once we conjured up our lives right
as we wanted them,
began foundation there and then,
forever in romantic arms,
forever in our arms.
my rhododendron, and we bought more pets.