“He never sent you flowers….!”

Your bald recognition of fact is

as ever, incontestable.

But you assume

I wanted flowers.

Colourful corpses

bound in sickly pink ribbon.

Each perfumed petal

a reminder of decay

inevitably falling

falling away….

 

No.

I wanted fire in my veins

not water.

I wanted open fields

not cellophane binding.

I wanted a rush of blood

pounding, pulsating

senses cart-wheeling

feeling feeling….

 

Life.

 

Not amputated stems.

 

Yes.

I desired many things,

 

but never…..

 

flowers.

 

 

By Fiona Lochhead    1991

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