Like the heads of five bathing women,
five nasturtium leaves—their hair-then stems
dangling through clear, cold water—loll
over the lip of the plain white cup
you placed them in. Every time I see them,
even in dreams, I remember the moment
just after you had arrayed them,
when the clustered green heart-shapes,
still taut and parched, began to glow,
and your hands, impossibly potent, still
hovered above them like twin suns.
You were starting to give me your love,
like a dry bud slipped into a vase.
That was when I discovered a hunger,
old and uncomplicated, for a feast
of nasturtiums. That night in bed,
between our bellies in the simple bowl
of our sex, gardens of nasturtiums
began to bloom, and when I cried
and you held your warmth around me
they flourished in the wet and heat.
Did you see them, too? Like the five
that float in my cup, they were full
and sweet and bright and ready to feed us.
