three tight coils of baby cheeked freshness, bought for her by her mother. Primped, curled, sprayed with morning dew by the florist and tied with a bow in complementary shades. pinned rose petal against rose satin, ah the picture of innocent loveliness.
going to the ball in the rain in the rain in the rain
one face, an older man with red hair. two songs by Bryan Adams. four beers, one of them spilt on her dress (but it was an accident). hands on her waist sliding downwards and down. run to the toilet petals still pert on her chest the morning dew long gone the innocence not long after. it was a silly dream. he didn’t kiss her. he’s still dancing with his mates. the petals silent now. the moistness dries.
three tight coils dried upside down and hanging her closet. coiled in embryonic waiting, they hang.
Apologies for my absence in verse. The act of swelling physically makes me swell with words and inspiration, too, but actually getting to the computer to start working on a new poem feels like far too ambitious a proposition in my brain-tired, third trimester state. Especially when there are other deadlines and projects jostling for the times when I don't feel like sleeping/watching zombie TV. But no more excuses!! Baby is imminent (I'm at 36 weeks and getting regular Braxton Hicks "practice" contractions, am convinced it's any day now - all the more so because I've also procrastinated on packing my hospital bag).
Anyway, this week I have posted a prose poem - semi true/semi fictional. As close to flash fiction as I have got so far. For more flash fiction, go to Tuesday Poem.