The Exotics

What was it you said
          when the throng of gulls
                    flocked to us like bed sheets

flung and pillowing
          as the sun disappeared
                    into the white-flame sky?

All morning you beat back
          the mimosas with your hatchet,
                    reclamation by the spit

of your sweat. A beat—
          and then they sprouted again.
                    Don't tell the magnolias

about the dead hibiscus.
          They are already choked
                    by an undergrowth viny

and damned. Love, I know
          we are penned in by
                    an incomprehensible jungle.

The exotics fan their veins
          deep into the sand.
                    But—look. From the wreckage

the kudzu unfurls its delicate flower.
          The stingrays flit toward the mouth
                    of the sea.

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Copyright © 2015 Kate Gaskin All rights reserved
from Cherry Tree
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission