Amaryllis

Long-stemmed girl, you set the pot
in sun at the window's hip.

Trowel, bulb, a sponge, wet soil.
Your hope is a seed in warm peat,

your life, the growth that hides
behind a mess of laundry, dishes,
obligations you hate.

Crumpled silk and cotton tees
ornament wood flooring. Beer cans
and scratched CDs. Boys call.

You want to know what will grow
in the light.

A bloom is a slow patience
that makes you grit your teeth
and smoke

while you search the dirt and faces near
you. Everything is a mirror
you read.

You think, Let my flower grow.
It's hard to love what's underground.

You bite through skin
to see what's real. So hard young
to believe you are beautiful,

so you sit on your chair and wait
in the day,

wanting to know your color,
but how can you know anything
when each leaf touched
is still a surprise
you find in the sun's shine.

There is heat,
a damp seed,
soon roots,
and a pushing at the surface.

You drink and smoke, hoping
what you deny will prove you wrong.

Your face is a blade of light.
Your legs will turn you to the sky.

The buried seed cries,
Find me, find me.

Copyright © 2005 Andrew Gottlieb All rights reserved
from
from Pebble Lake Review

Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission