Sabrina

17

Ghazal of June

we walked on stolen roses waiting for ribbons and late orchids
to tell us of the thunder last winter, of the permanganate orchids

who were the first to notice the coroner’s sign of four crossed on
the door, sizzling on the cast iron along with ornate orchids.

I remember using forgetfulness as a silver lining and asked to
to refund the memory that sometime across we ate orchids

and broiled them in wrought iron pans, taking the juices
out and smearing them with butter, discarnate orchids

that stole the iambs and homemade pepper jelly
to make a rainstorm. Chance potentate, orchids

where we walked on the battered pier,
lost ourselves in fourth estate orchids

and cameramen on byways, the
stolen roses sizzling on the cast

iron, taking the juices to
make a rainstorm.