
Mine’s more like an O’Keeffe/Twombly;
born of bougainvillea brush strokes; unraveling
petals bearing, groaning out the sixty-eight
genius children of Javier O. Huerta. He knew
the meticulous folds don’t come
Easily; the internal orchestration almost
impossible to disseminate. But, I declare –
it can be done. If you go back to the petals,
really think about the color, blue-white
delphinium, a wink of pink; saturation
begins inside naturally, just beyond the stamen
line – in the background there is the sea,
angry at the unfinished poetry, starts another
grocery list; she can’t remember
all her old lovers – unaware Cy
is watching, unwise to the trick
of the tide, molding her size,
dictating her movement, spills
her secrets on the sand. Georgia
is diving in again, deep deep
commitment, to an Iris, her lips
of lavender-mauve, ripe for artistic
improvement, gives herself over,
and over and over, a wave folding,
a flower unfolding, myself – miraculous
folds of female modern art:
hybrid growth of complexity.
Follow Elisabeth on Twitter: @ehoranpoet
Visit Emma Sywyj at her website: www.emmasywyj.com