Right now I am the flower girl.
I bring fresh flowers
dump out the old ones,
the greenish water that smells.
And I am star of my own film. In offices
I polish the leaves of rampant ferns,
and the suited men leer.
To the white linen tables of the nightclub
I bring fixed arrangements,
rigid in statice while I bend and glide
hips first through the bunny girl doors
that flap back black
and silver and smoked glass.
At night I leave my window open for Dorian.
He climbs the pale façade
of the icing-sugar house,
dark pool of city, wink of tail-lights
adhered to his clothes
furled and pocketed in the heap
of jeans on the floor
so that we are skin against skin and bone
promised to bone in an arc of focus
moved to the senses, replete.
More than. So that we conjure greater
than the two of us. Energy, passion, spirit
and a third, seeded here. Centred.
Like a doll brought to life,
made real to know for the first time
blood, and sensation, tissue alert, awakened.
Cells singing purpose, purpose, purpose
like the bells of the city on Sunday
when the workers sleep
and Dorian slips from the window
and is gone.
So I am the flower girl. I bring fresh flowers
dump out the old ones, the greenish water
that smells. And this child we have made
you and I, Dorian, this child we have made?