Who was it that said that incredibly sweet thing about the lilies in my house?
Staring up at them in the late morning maybe, maybe in the evening - feeling sad for them with their provocative shape, protruding genitals, petals, palms stretched back all the way enticing a bee that will never come. It is winter, not just that, they are indoors.
I stare at them, probably drunk and romantic, feeling sorry for them and he tells me they have fulfilled their destinies when I smell them. Tickle their stigma and pistil.
And I smell them. All the time.
I sleep with the dead ones cupped in my hand near my face. Find them crumpled in sheets in the morning.
Michelle asked if I want honey with my tea. What will it be like when the bees are gone? Of course, I want honey with my tea.
Used to spend my money on roses. Before they died all the way I would take them into the backyard and lay them so they could, in their last days, feel the dew on their petals and would be spared the humiliation of crumpling before our eyes.
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