joe frye
projects
Monologue of a Petunia Plucked from Gloam
In the pond, I loose
lash & tether; cup water
teem of specked plum
petals—their truth
tastes of eventide. My lips chap,
pluck the languid bloom
in burgeon from water’s center.
Anthers wilt, fall
to lapis. Call a bridge
of glass carried on black
fish. Fins, a carnal noose,
tow spirit in witness
of a lank mirror. Drown
my reflection in mulch
& fable. Drink—bathe
in vernix I sleep, stir
in my want of thirst, opening
my throat: a stem
in maturation. My flesh:
sepals. My bile:
grass upon the sheeted surface
glass. My scars do not pus, my scars
blossom—a mead pale
& amethyst.