Datura | Angela M. Brommel
Through the window cast the half-truth of a memory
not at all like it had been, but shaded with the regret of now.
It was the night-blooming vespertine, unremarkable by day
that in a few short hours by moonlight will be called marvelous.
How peculiar at first, the unrecognizable sight of one’s hand,
the frenetic fingers of a failing gesture. A body no longer one’s own. A body no longer
the other’s. Down in the very weeds of it all, sprawling billows of white, innocuous seeming blooms at the feet of the pomegranate tree. Had there been no song
in the garden, had there been no light across your face,
there would be no tomorrow.
Angela M. Brommel is a Nevada writer with Iowa roots. Her poetry has appeared in The North American Review, Vapid Kitten, Sweet: A Literary Confection, and The Citron Review among other places.