Do You Remember?
There's the daisy: white petals
And a plush yellow center
And so we begin
Our anxious interrogation
Gregory Orr
Concerning the Book That Is The Body of the Beloved
It was one thing to pluck
every petal out of the yellow yolk
of the daisy's eye, the game
went this way and that and if you weren't right
bored with yourself you'd give in
and try: try not to tear the petal in
half so part's pinched in your finger
and thumb and part's still
stuck on living. All those skedaddled
loves and loves not are limp
and some come under the boot
and some are clung to the elbow
or center of your chest where else
would they lay finally and forever
abandoned. the least
favorite part of the game was thumbing
up under the coveted
center of the yell-
ow eye and letting as much
of its entirety fall into the palm
of your hand trying
not to listen to it tear away. It was glistening
with its own coming undone and all
the little bits some scattered some in a clump
were being judged. Hold yourself completely
flat. Steady. Then
Blow.
Blow hard. One two three because your life
will never be
the same however many remained. The count
some days eight some days none but most
days too many to want to count
at all meant that was how many kids
you'd have whether he loved you
whether he didn't love you whether
the petal that tore in
half was if you didn't cheat the last
he does he does not and you wished
it didn't mean anything didn't mean
he'd be dead that summer or the next or just up
and gone for good and the yolky
stain he thumbed inside
of you starting to dry because he said it would he
promised as the petals scattered some
some on the belt buckle some
on the zipper lifting when the breeze
if the breeze comes up.
