Bernard and Cerinthe

Bernard and Cerinthe

Bernard and Cerinthe

If a flower is always a velvet curtain
onto some peepshow he never opens,
 
it’s a shock to find himself, sheltering
from the storm in a greenhouse,
 
seduced by a leaf blushing blue
at the tips, begging to be stroked. 
 
He’s caught in the unfamiliar ruffle
of knickerbockers or petticoat, a scent
 
of terror, vanilla musk.  If he were
not himself, he’d let his trembling lips
 
articulate the malleability of wax;
the bruise of bracts, petals, purple
 
shrimps; seeds plump as buttocks,
tucked out of harm’s way, cocos-de-mer
 
washed up off Curieuse or Silhouette. 
But being Bernard, he’s dumbstruck,
 
a buffoon in front of a saloon honey
high-kicking the can-can.  Can’t-can’t.
 
He attempts to cool himself, thinking
about seahorses, Hippocampus erectus,
 
listening to the rain refusing to stop,
soft against the steamed-up glass.