Mid the blossoms of morning

They sprout 

Lush and leafy in the mountain forest

In their elongated bodies 

In their luxuriant 

Loveliness: Seven of them—nothing perhaps

Secret in that number—but only 

Because beauty willed it so 

Like the breath of grass or the cosmos 

Because they rose 

By vein or hymen fragile cusp of stamen

They bless the red patch of earth

They walk over

Each of them lithe as the curl and twist 

Of the green blades the tremulous palmeras 

Their flowing limbs tapering

Into their slim fingers

The vandas and cattleyas swaying above them

But also blooming in their bandannas 

Behind ear among braid or pigtail gossamer 

Kimonas falling off shoulders

Barely clinging or concealing cleavage 

So nude in their crinkling 

Precariousness

Over the tight knots of tapis and saya—

Ikat or batik, geometric or florette—

Showing the briefest 

Midriff their pursed lips pert noses pointed

Chins high bones of cheek

The high points of their avocado faces

Averted or intent

Their slant-eyes disdaining the lids of sleep

What can disturb them among

The spray of lilies

Burst of chrysanthemum

Plumage of birds of paradise?

 

 

Marne Kilates

23 October 2018

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