Thursday, September 4, 2014

Amaryllis by Karina Borowicz

"We walk on air, Watson.
There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorus.
There is only a crow in a tree. Make notes." 

(underlines mine)  ~Sylvia Plath, from her poem 'The Detective'.


By Karina Borowicz

Something with feathers
or possibly fangs
is curled up, raw
munching the starch
inside the bulb
in the dark drawer

or a flower waits
in the papery egg
that crackles like an onion
petals collecting themselves
in the yolk, composing
themselves from the red
and yellow glints that fall
on its shell as it drowses
by the windowsill

then, when it finally opens
there is no snake springing
from the cave of the clay pot
no sharp-shinned hawklet
building a nest laced with bones
on the cliff of my kitchen shelf

when the red fist defiantly opens
there's nothing
but opening

from:  "The Bees Are Waiting" by Karina Borowicz, page 84


1 comment:

Marion said...

Thank you, Karen. I try to choose poems (from my 400 poetry books) that appeal to a wide audience. I appreciate you. xo