Lily of the Valley –
you worshipped the flower so much
you aspired to sprout into it.
From a young age, as I recall
you embellished your plain body
in it whole. Today, even a whiff
of Eve’s tears pierces a hole
through my soul.
Decades later and I’m caught
like a fruit fly, in your honeyed, syrupy
scent once more. I’ve been stuck
With the memory of you. Your existence.
Your desertion
(of us).
I still wear our friendship bracelet.
Do you remember, the one we crafted
in Mrs. Kelley’s art class
from the bright embroidery floss?
It’s faded now, but it still maintains
traces of fresh jasmine.
As do you.
You mirror the May bells at last:
your hair is just as milky and curly
at the bottom and your back,
like its stem, is curved
from the burden of old age.
Concealing your bruised skin
is the brilliant token of our familiarity.
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