A man on 26th Street sets moon flowers to start in egg cartons on a table beside his bed. Soon they will loop around the gray windows louvers twining sweetness through his dreams. Close your eyes, give way and the sheets, yes, your skin, are her skin and take the voice, take your own hand with her voice guiding and here are the flowers opening like time-lapse photography--tendrils finding the small pocks in the concrete, close now, the moon of her face lifts between your thighs. What is real? The man slapping potting soil from his hands? A prediction of tides from the lunar chart of water rings the carton leaves on the table's wood finish? And where is she? Whisper her name and static answers, open the windows and the silent trumpets of the flowers dip and rise casually in the air.
From Strange Gravity by Lisa Rhoades, published by Bright Hill Press. Copyright © 2004 by Lisa Rhoades. Reprinted by permission of Bright Hill Press. All rights reserved.