The Garden Of Sex Ii Poem by Jeanne Larsen

Here, purples of salvia cast
tiered whorls of shade
from each small dark torch.
Their lingering pungency
masks every doubt. Their
healing denies

any violence, the incisions of loss.
They gainsay with blurred
coaxing silences
the sulphurous tansy's sun-stricken

risk. And so they erase
its posed oppositions—sly poison
or bright, piquant herb? One
more thing

doubled. You might wish
for more clarity. Still,
believe this: there's no wounding here, no
griefs, deprivation. Only

what seeps and what tangles,
denying you nothing, or nothing
you want.