Air of Aphrodisia

Today, a starting pistol breaks open a keg of fire powder

That will terrorize this tongue once used for frigid sweetness.

An annual tradition set on a bet by a race of men, contaminated by

A scatter they introduce as “The Mrs;” whose name tags are lapel flowers;

Money soils hands that drop back into empty pockets. Gloves without fingers,

Touch fingertip to fingertip, before shooting into the garden.

For me, she takes point, down the flank of hedges into this deserted bush.

All betting continues, while only guns can be heard beyond the rustle of leaves.

Her choice, a void of inner-sanctuary, which renders the most unpicked flowers-

The potential for glory in their petals, nibbled by insects and exposed by rot spots.

She consents to our layering in the broken grass and although unplanned,

Submits to this resistance, a silent echo of fire, gunshot, and sweetness.

As I clear from her shoulders, crushed violets and whispers, I feel

A constant and consistent desire begin, I yearn for her, approval.

And by mid-afternoon a stale disintegration empties the garden, dumps us

On the steps and doorways, we ran through and bloomed against, as children.

The dawn’s promise of sugared cookies and sweet tea ignites, burns,

Now, only for her “yes,” tangled in this vined heat. Until night darkened.

I mute my own tongue, my lost bet, with a gin and tonic.

To stumble home calling out the cheers and rot and potential flame.

I open the door to my home, so blurred, I no longer recognize it.

Tell me, all is love, while I hope to clear the air of Aphrodisia.