Deborah H. Doolittle

Tulipomania

Consider the tulip~the turban, teacup,
wine glass, chalice, of the flower garden:
Galahad’s grail, Zeus’s dainty demitasse,
the Dutchman’s tumbler, the Hollander’s
mug. Let’s sip its nectar, drink its pollen,
eat the petals~tastes like lotus blossoms,
I’ve heard it said, a combo of chard and prune.
Broken, its bulbs produce feathers or plumes.
Apple-skinned, dapple-capped, its green
lithe limbs lick the breeze; likewise, slice
the sky. History revisits itself each spring.
In my garden, what else can we so desire?
What else~blooming~could we so lovingly
devour? And, all for six guilders! A flower by
any other name would be equally bizarre.

Ann’s Hands

A standard ten, unlike Boleyn,
she keeps coiled around her coffee.
The fingertips, tapered, clipped,
overlap. Clouds rise from the center
of the cup, obscure the mountain peak
on the poster behind her back,
which could be Kilimanjaro.
And she on safari, always
dressed for the part, in hand-me-down
khakis with many pockets and flaps.
When she lifts the rim to her lips,
she reveals the steamy liquid within,
her hands both steady and hot.
Which is it that seeks the heat:
the fingers or the teeth?
When her train departs, who will
know the hunter from the heart?
She looks right past me, standing up:
Just so, she says while her hands take
on the contours of her gloves.
_____

Deborah H. Doolittle has published work in Barbaric Yawp, Free Fall, Measure, Yemassee, The Lyric, and elsewhere. She lives in North Carolina.