Effeuiller la Marguerite

August wind. Flushed skin pricks up on young

bodies like little red flags. Still, they curl around each other--heart hard against chest,

chest hard against cheek. Drawn together by what he calls Luck though she murmurs,

Divine-timing in his ear.

Entangled within blankets of stars, romping on sopping beds of bluegrass, she plucks

fistfuls of flowers from her hair and is returned to days of

girlhood and baby’s breath even as she splits herself wide open. Even as she blooms into a lotus.

(He loves me.)

It is almost day-break. The stars have extinguished their flame. Now he

jumps up to bury the shame of his actions. Now she hurries to weed this sinful

knowledge from her soiled eyes. (He 

loves me not.)

More flowers pour from her head. Pour from her heart. Pour from the burning

nexus of her legs.

Open hands that once explored warm flesh now lunge at smoldering

petals that slip through the cracks between her fingers. (He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He love--)

(QUIET!)

Reality.

She is alone in the quest to 

turn back the hands of time.

Un-make her womanhood. She re-

visits her youth and

weaves flower-crowns as the schoolgirls once did from

xeranthemums. But all in vain. So, she cries out for

Yahweh and claws after Beel-

zebub. With dirty palms, she tries to push Eden back into her hair.