BERNARD AND CERINTHE Poem by Linda France

If a flower is always a velvet curtain
onto some peepshow he never opens,

it's a shock to find himself, sheltering
from the storm in a greenhouse,

seduced by a leaf blushing blue
at the tips, begging to be stroked.

He's caught in the unfamiliar ruffle
of knickerbockers or petticoat, a scent

of terror, vanilla musk. If he were
not himself, he'd let his trembling lips

articulate the malleability of wax;
the bruise of bracts, petals, purple

shrimps; seeds plump as buttocks,
tucked out of harm's way, cocos-de-mer

washed up off Curieuse or Silhouette.
But being Bernard, he's dumbstruck,

a buffoon in front of a saloon honey
high-kicking the can-can. Can't-can't.

He attempts to cool himself, thinking
about seahorses, Hippocampus erectus,

listening to the rain refusing to stop,
soft against the steamed-up glass.