The Summer After You Die, I Steal a Magnolia | The Poetry Foundation
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It’s honest spite scraped across damp coquina that makes me a spade, my lust heavy and fragrant as iron shears. My only tree blooms in the painting you parlored for me. I’m awash in unopened buds, those long undulant clits, pollen-laced, shameless, murmuring while I curve the on-ramp leaned into my steering wheel, gin-tinged in my cloche, a store-bought sampler of dried Dutch blues. Saw palms vault their middle fingers while I melt. I forget to unlock my emergency break. I am fat, a moon of cream, a bulbous globe unfolding a sadness so profound I can’t help but stand back and…
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