Do You Remember?

 

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.