"Pink Adobe" Copyright 2001 Elaine Thomas
There she is again. Barefoot.
Smug in her gerbera-pink dress,
slingbacks flung off days ago
into an artichoke field.
I haven't been her for years,
though she still follows me
from move to move
as my homes get larger and larger
and tell less and less of me,
of the deep pink that only grows
where rainy is a season
not a mood that passes by noon.
The day I wore gerbera, I ate one
snatched from a garden in Tacoma:
tongued the petals, pollen, tallow,
the whole stolen body
in its fleeting prime. The dress disappeared
the same trip. I think of the flower now
rarely as a word, a pretty name
for a lipstick color, bloom and body
forgotten until the photograph surfaces
like an invitation just discovered
for a party in my honor
I missed weeks ago.