this brief life

Sue Jamieson

I waited


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?

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