Our eyes do not shine
with judgement like theirs,
our small, pinpricks of coloured light,
peaches, purples, reds and pinks,
but we watch you as we drink,
sip from the vase usually kept
beneath the sink.
We seek the sun but find ourselves
resting upon your weary face,
distant in the netherworlds of a mind
man is hesitant to admit to
being its creator. Distant
in its sadness which only you do not see
as a sadness worth living for.
Did you know at midnight you smile?
In dreams of insomnia you sleep,
peacefully as if already
six feet under with flowers
adorning a granite chest
rather than your bedside, unlit
as the curtains remain drawn
and our mouths wilt in hunger
for unripe watermelons and sour apricots,
for anything into which
we can sink our teeth,
because our fronds grow limp,
our heads fall into your clammy lap
and we wish our life was sweeter
than the death you desire to enfold
within your moon waning arms.
A response to Sylvia Plath’s poem, Tulips.
Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020
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