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Mimi Khalvati


Around the flower, space falls away, thins,
so that our yesterdays so bright before

beyond and around it dull while the eye,
scouring the background for line or form,

floating over the practised plains of memory,
protests, how can the obvious be so lovely,

turning a golden face to the sun, blaring
a silent trumpet while a bloodstain at the core

seeps onto five crêpe petals frilled, veined,
almost pleated and an erection, red-tipped,

throws the shadow of its head to form
a small grey petal of its own, two-winged?

Perfect, bisexual, hermaphroditic, a flower
a child might draw with the joy of singularity,

an only child for whom just one will do –
like Crusoe in England – just one of everything.



http://www.mimikhalvati.co.uk/ Written at the Almassera in 2012


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