The guilt-lilacs were a present at the door.
I put them
in a Roman vase on the window
where
everyone could see what you did
or at least
think I’ve lived with a gentleman.
Perhaps you’d
propose on the patio, they said,
through a
mouthful of crackling champagne.
Pop questions like a cork. The clocks swelter,
wipe their glass
eye with flowerless hands.
I ask them: why lilacs?
They smell
of her.
Now they die
in a wastepaper basket
as I go
about my business, pack our belongings
in trunks
already too full, write my name
on the
labels. A bee zips in through the window
like an awkward
word,
clings to carnation skeletons.
But the
lilacs are terribly calm. They go so well
on the
reeking bedside
with the
poison-lilies, barbed roses—
awkward
honeysuckle clambering
the walls as
though heaving away
on flowery
limbs. The botanic man—
petalled
head tied to a stake.
Guilt-lilacs
bruise in the sun.
