These red
quivering emissaries
wrapped in
transparent cellophane paper
are
delivered to room 1350, the publications
office.
This is the
first time you send flowers.
I descend
the escalators cradling them like Miss
America.
A unibrowed
stranger says congratulations
and I feel
vulnerable traipsing around with
these garnet
ambassadors in broad daylight.
While riding
the Metro they rest on my lap,
stretched
out and languishing as if desiring a
lover.
The thorns
sheared. The foliage peeps
out of its
cellophane shell, fronds lightly
brushing
my elbows.
Approaching my car I feel that if I bend
the wrong
way the buds will bob backwards and snap
off.
I drive like
there is a baby in a car seat beside me.
You have
sent these messengers because I am
afraid
of getting
married. At home I undress
them, soak
their fatigued stems in a clear vase.
The florist
has inserted transparent cylinders
full of
water at the base of each stem— liquid
capsules preventing
your silent
envoys from wilting and drooping
prematurely.