Eudora Welty fell for the word moon, a grape slipping
its skin, as it rolled in her mouth, the m kissed, the o
caressed with her tongue.
She reveals her secrets, imperfections. A fickle lover
prone to change, abandonment. Requiring the moon
to adhere toher demands, to rise and set like the sun.
After unveiling its reluctance to follow, on she moved.
I lust for frangipani. Swimming in salmon petals and
delighting as the g leapfrogs the i, embraces the p.
Last year, while flirting with fronds, I found them
split, indecisive. They left me unsatisfied. The flaws
of frangipani will surface, blemishes on leaves.
We are sluts for language, Eudora and I, picking
up verbs, nouns, stripping them bare, screwing
them to the wind. Discarding, moving on.