In Love

The bloom.

The flower of the vein
that I opened in the neck.

I opened it
and the dog moaned
before it quaked and folded down
upon the flowerbed floor.

I put the knife under the tap
and watched the tendrils
slip across the surface
of the steel into the trap.

I sat by the dog and stroked it
as it died without understanding
that I pursue beauty wherever it hides
and that the bloom from its throat
was my lovely, lovely gift
to myself.

I am in bloom myself,
I told the dog,
and it mattered to me
that this was true.

How it mattered —
I was learning what it took
to raise a bloom
from its hiding place.

In love.
In love with the sweet ribbons.
This flower is my decoration,
my day of fantasy and slippery play.

In the sleep of the moment
a last shiver, then nothing.
Nothing, like the scent of this iron bud
opening, its trailing petals.

Thinking already
of the next cutting I shall take
from the garden of all skin
that stretches before me.