Naming what has risen

Why not a crocus from this bulb? Why not the purple
of bees’ lust so that, in honey, she might taste something
good? Under skin, purple is a private taste, closer
to the blood of her tongue, closer to the blood
she chokes on when she’s gasping, to the clot
behind her blackened eye. The heated force
that slammed her shin, that pushed bone
from the bone, that arched her but did not
approach caress, is another kind of lust. Spring:
a madness of grappling. Isn’t that what she sees outside
every window? And inside? Nothing unique going on.

More Poems by Camille T. Dungy