Carol Frith

Ragged White Flower

camellia blooming
into May, a study in shadow.

Mildew, you say, turning the blossom
in your unsteady right hand.

Between us, light like a sheet
of onionskin.

It is morning; it is afternoon. Daylight
wilts into riddles.

I ask you to say this for me; you lapse
into a rational silence, the light growing
meditative and fragile.

A condition of order, I tell you; you break
my words into subcategories:
pre-affective, absolute, inconclusive.

There is too much May in the air.
The neighbor's dialectical leaf blower
whines into answer mode.

The white camellia: a game of light,
my words in your mouth.

I count backwards on my fingers through
a calendar of days.

Light is vertical, you say, driven back
into movement.

Afternoon settles its creamy light around us
like mild water.

Slow pleasures: My words, your voice,
drowning in the wind, the white camellia
sleepy with stains.

I have used up all my answers. Time overlaps
itself, swallows the white air
like a bright snake.

Tell me my days like a rosary, I ask you.

Your voice walks up and down the garden,
scattering vowels and consonants.

Tonight, the streetlamps will cast
vague penumbras in the birch leaves.

I look at the white sky unplanning itself.
The air is a sign.

We have come too far, you say.

The camellia's branches lower in the blue
breeze, light wafering into evening:
We have almost tried.