Sue Jamieson
I waited
tight-lipped
all the time
you were away
tight as an oboe reed,
starved in a bucket
if you must know
I knew
what I might become
sharp pink
like some flaming bird
my sweet aroma
lay on your hands
and from the umber stamens
of my throat
fine sticky dust fell
upon books
all fallow
you’ve cut me
to possess me
and I die too soon
fall and fade
from deep to pale
far down in the soil
just the corm of me
to ponder
Shall I show my face
to this brief life
just to please you?
