Don't

Along the furry case, the seams
ease open and the bud drops out.
Waxy petals uncurl in the moist
night air. The fresh face turns

to the banged-up moon climbing
again in its wreath of ancient
silence. Grief is a night bloomer
and when it opens up, it opens

to cup the dark and rock it
on its wet stem. Though moths come
and drink the juice, though creamy
perfumes ride the night, it remains

alone, remote, this white bruise,
beautiful and useless.

Copyright © 2003 Michelle Boisseau All rights reserved
from Southern Review and Trembling Air, (University of Arkansas Press, 2003)
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission