Glorios, The Marigold!
Oh, God, I love the marigold!
That little bunched-up constipated stink,
that goatís breath gold, that
orange butch topped mop, that
funny frazzle headed, December daring rag, that
low down hosanna,
that red-gold stamp of temper in the noon, that
squabbled orange botch of boutonniere,
y keep me from the horizon,
that coin of courage in the frosted night,
that flower I vase to gaze at for three weeks
before it dies of staring back,
that I take by the broken neck and gently pinch
until, soft as mouseís ears, its petals fall upon
the sill, where all winter long its dried gold soul
beats out the color glad.
Copyright 1997, Norah Christianson
Norah Christiansonís poetry has appeared in such magazines as The Spoon River Poetry Review, Press, The Kansas Quarterly, and San Jose Studies. She is editor of the Connecticut River Review, a national journal of poetry, and works as a secretary for a janitorial service in Bridgeport, CT.
Thematic Contents / Vol. 3, No. 1
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