Squash Blossoms

Early 
before the sun has risen 
high enough
to lick the dew from the petals
I rise and go to gather
squash blossoms 
for breakfast.

My fingers brush
the leaves aside,
and grasp the stem 
to snap the flower free. 

the hairs itch, 
I scratch, 
and redness blooms across my skin.

I rinse and dip
into the slip of beaten eggs
dredge across crumbs, 
and drop onto 
the heat. 

I turn them,
as they sizzle,
and the smell
rises to my nose.

I think of you, 
of the blossom of your sex, 
of the slip of your wetness,
the heat of your mouth

I close my eyes, 
and think that you will never be
of the darling buds of May 
but of the extravagant 
blossoms of the squash 
in June.

I almost burn our breakfast. 


© E. Howe  2002
All rights reserved
