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Black-Eyed Susan

Black-eyed Susans relax their petals like loosened hair,
burn holes in the earth as they drop,
burn golden oblong flames …
I can feel the heat miles away,
deep searing buttery hole in my mouth.
My tongue seeks the charred unnumbed space.

Susan, Susan, I call through the miles,
scatter my ashes in the Chesapeake Bay.
The earth can’t hold these flaming holes.
The Bay cannot hold me.

I slip oysters, love fish, onto my tongue,
but they slide too fast for flowers.
“Someone’s been hittin’ on you with a pretty stick,
miss Susan,” I say; her eyes dark with sorcery
bat, wink, close,
spin yellow petals with fearless magic.
I replace my eyes with hers.
Sweetheart’s got dark eyes and falling hair
and will forever lie scattered beyond the shore.

I should eat amorous oysters and laugh,
I should eat oysters and flowers after I die.
Vaya con Dios, my sweetheart,
the oysters slitheringly say, and Susan
just stares from my eyes, sears my soul,
leaves her holes too deep for feeding.

(c)MWms

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