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plump mother-lode of pleasure
tight buds all awash in ants

pink skirts ragged at the edges
old-fashioned bowl of fragrance

palace of ants and feathers
I watch the rain come

and the shining heads bow
under heavy jewels

petals fall in clumps
and scatter soft and slow

on the pockmarked soil
I cup a blossom in my hands

lower my head, inhale the scent
of mother mother mother

Sidney Wade

The Cincinnati Review

Winter 2013

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