Maureen Donatelli’s last poem here was Lessons. Today she gives us a lyrical and lavish lament.
Nectar
By Maureen Donatelli
By Maureen Donatelli
The morning was all sunlight uproarious,
pouring like an ocean over my patio, filling the tiniest shadows
between the petals of bright orange marigolds; their vibrancy
brought you close, arresting you in mid flight, their orange hearts
beautiful, robust fullness praising the sun, seeming to open even more
to your hovering, your trills–such lovely blooms, their color so lovely, so, so lovely!
I had seen you often around the building, nice enough, but so loud, everything laid before you,
lovely, everything about you, lovely and immense. My instinct was to avoid immensity,
to hide before it, to hide behind the bits of chipped blue paint on the railing, to crawl further
and further into the heads of the marigolds I was snipping as you came hear, my silver scissors
catching something, a bright lustrous liquid dancing in your eyes, your face open
and rich and so alive. I grimaced a smile, tried a token of empty thanks, folded myself
away and, from the corner of my eye, watched you vanish into thick white air, humming
some pretty made up tune to the world. Vanished, with a lump of rabid flesh nestled tight
in your body, the news whispered on the breath of others, in words
that married your life, your youth to tragedy, cruelty, shame. They did not know you,
how the sheer beauty of sunlight on marigolds fluttered inside you, mirrored its iridescence
upon your face, rang bright in your voice, in your eyes open, giving, gathering.
How I wish I had learned the taste of your name. How I wish I had fed your nectar.
Maureen, this is one to read several times, if not you will miss something delightful.