Will Brown

                                                      Flower no. 11

                                                          –for A.D.

We have gone-on together for some time, without a name     like troubadors

in a long-running gypsy band     You, the mandolin; I, a woody bass and both

our voices crashing the hurdling stars with lilting concent     It has been enough

 

in a small town     with orangepeel mornings & grassy afternoons     with light

from your reading lamp landing on     nape & touching-toes, the painting of an

apple (scotched with purpling ripeness), a teacup crusted with daisies & dregs     with

 

enjambment of schedules, our overlapping durance    mixed with apertif & fume

as the radio listens in on us, there     on your porch at dusk, admiring the clouds

We are foundlings, sharing our second parents.  Their voices peak through the

 

breeze, saying     Slowly to indicate the friendship & Truly to nod at fidelity among

bandits      Some have seen us shaking our tits at the moon, our rattles     rousing

a throng to abandon all sense     some, our quiet ladle over a crockpot of beans &

 

a board of pain cheese grapes. Listen     feel the vibration oscillate beyond a dusty

road, a Carolina vista     It goes on and on     We do not require the rose-bushes

begging questions in your neighbor’s yard, mistasting our sophisticated red.    I

 

will boil the water, put a minty sachet  in the cup, fill just above halfway     You

will come down,  silken & nodding     take the steaming bouquet & the cooling

napkin     as declaration enough    to continue to the next town–bristling and high,

 

anticipating the revelers–     dirge & stomp ticking from our blouses

Will Brown is a native of East Tennessee and has returned to his home state as a graduate student in English, where he is working on a creative thesis under the direction of Gaylord Brewer. You can find him most weekend mornings in full Chelsea regalia, following the soap opera that is English futbol.
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