So it's called You Were The Bride Of Gin.
Bride of men, you followed home and let
fuck you only to discover that they already had a woman.
A woman who would never know what you had done with her man,
never know what a shit she was married to.
You were enamored of impulse, tearing flower heads
from sidewalk squares that had converted from cement to soil.
How pure your longing to be anything other than yourself.
How difficult to extricate the stem only
to hold the scattering brooding petals
and how you longed for that stem.
Little former whore, self you have almost outgrown.
Think of Claudia pining for Apollo.
Her whole face turned toward an idea of heaven.
Think of the faces turn toward you
now as you recite from the myth you have made.
All of them listening to you.
Of all flowers, you.