Kathleen Kirk

You must forgive me for loving the tumbled garden, the end of the zinnias, the tight new bud holding its secret pink or orange against the blue-gray sky, the moonflowers swallowing the darkened...

Why should suffering suffuse us with shame? Ecstasy if seen as the red nasturtium hidden deep under round leaves. Blush turned outward, we could also unfold.

Crickets are tiny white stars in the shade of early afternoon, and purple ones on the trail. They tell me about invisible stars.

I was ready to open, dew hung from my leaves, a boy asked me why I didn't kiss him, so I did, his lips soft as petals, closed. I waited.

Eros was the part of me that could sleep, and Psyche was my sisters urging me on. One morning I woke from a dream of my mother backing the red car out of the garage.

My mother pressed the button for the car radio, and my father found an oldies station, songs of the sixties, their early marriage. The sky kept up its awful red.

I cannot find my heart nor the moon tonight, and the Lovers' Tarot is upside down on the bookcase, with the Devil grinning downside up, the Tower standing its ground, and the Moon reversed, a...