Flower Seller
Rivera, 1941
On the asphalt I go
To Acapulco
Past the rubble; burned tires,
El agua ‘no potable’
A family, a girl, their roses,
Tantas calas
White pinafore; white linen
I can smell her youth changing over to woman
The donkey tied
The Fiat parked
I walk across the black tar flat
To ask: cuánto es para una docena
Me dice: pa’a usted Senor,
Solo ciento-cincuenta.
Miracles – these flowers
To my wife I get on one knee
Tell her – eres toda,
Completamente toda para mi
But the girl
By the road
Was in white
Her hair tight
Behind the nape
Her arched neck
Like a child
With the bouquet of calas
I cannot taste these offerings
Yet the existence of her beauty
Hangs like an odor
Of me wanting her everywhere.
Elisabeth Horan is a poet from Vermont fighting back with her words. She advocates for animals children women warriors of mental illness and those tender souls left feeling isolated and misunderstood. @ehoranpoet
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