Elizabeth Bruno

Garden Walking

The petunias sag like empty skirts. Sarsaparillas

cut with their thin razors; and the tulips,

canary-yellow, shriek at my passing. Last night,

I brought home an Idaho man, rubbed his back

with persimmon and olive oil. We drank sangria

from champaign flutes the shape of daffodils,

fucked like hyenas on the mustard tile.

Afterwards, he lit a fat cigar, blew smoke

on my window-box hydrangeas, tossed me a sack

of old coins.  Now, I sprawl on a stone path,

squeeze a leaf in my palm the color of cut

muskmelon. Even at night, my geraniums

are audible; even at night they bawl

like bright wounds.

I hum the song of a Louisiana woman,

remember our thighs slapping like caught bluegills,

the heavy scent of creole in her hair. She wore

a yellow dress that swayed open like a day lily.

We rocked on her porch swing, ate crawfish casserole,

swatted black flies. She watched the sky until the stars

peppered her lawn. There was no man in sight—

only the neighbor’s dog heaving on its chain,

strawberry beignets bursting on the sill.

Elizabeth Bruno is a recent graduate of University of Wisconsin-Parkside, where she received her BA in English with a writing concentration.  Her poems have previously appeared or are forthcoming in The Adirondack Review, Envoi, Stirring, Eclectica, Lily, The Potomac, Kaleidowhirl, Wicked Alice, Right Hand Pointing, The Pedestal, Literary Mama & Shakespeare’s Monkey Review.