The swordtail ferns outside our door
foretell the fate of a crimson rose
intended for the tall blue vase
that curves like a waxing moon.

It’s August in a scented place,
a spiral staircase looms – from a smooth
white marble landing – our shadows
scarcely move. It’s then you’ll ask,

you always do, if we’ve come
this way before. I’ll pull you to a kiss
and say, I know of nothing more.
The ferns must be our bed (I’ll say),

the crimson rose your blush,
the vase is how I hold you,
the marble floor is lush. Our
shadows wish to speak, let’s hush.

 

J.L. Cooper: published in Subliminal Interiors