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          Forced Buds
          By Lyn Lifshin

          They're blighted, but
          beautiful still, like
          what's forbidden,
          scandal. I like them
          best then. I know
          that's the bad daughter
          in me, not choosing
          the ones that last.
          I tore the branches,
          sneaked them into
          a blue jar the way I
          might have had you in
          the brown velvet couch
          of a café I forget the
          name of, lets call
          it Casablanca. We'd
          needed something light,
          three hours of your
          unhealing blues part
          way to making love. I
          like the buds best
          just on the verge of
          opening, pink, pale rouge
          as a nipple before every
          thing opens and falls
          apart


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Document last modified on: 12/09/2006

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