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Read more poems by C. Dale Young: C. Dale Young Poems at Poetry X.

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C. Dale Young

		in memory of F.C. (1965-1991), 
		who died of AIDS complications


But there under the dark eaves
of rain forest, we found Broughtonia,
its crimson petals aflame,
its yellow throat, veins hinting purple,

rising to a sanguine corolla surrounded
by sepals as crinkled as mourning crepe.
We followed a path lengthened slash by slash,
the islanders swinging machetes in front of us.

We were told how Broughton's hands trembled
when he sighted those orchids languishing;
as he sketched, his nervous pencil
exaggerated the crumpled edge of every bloom.

We, too, had learned to exaggerate.
That night in Montego Bay,
we told the others we had seen dozens;
in New York, we said hundreds.

Today, we might have imagined the wind
licking us back into the Gully,
our hands as uninhibited as those petals.
No. I can no longer imagine. I choose not to.

Anonymous submission.

Added: 24 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 22 Jan 2019 10:09 PM | Viewed: 4145 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/7948/ | Viewed on 22 January 2019.
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