Blue Moon / Orange Begonias

(Previously Published: Rose Garden Press)

Laurie Koensgen

i

You noticed my orange begonias

in the pot beside the door.

Did I blush when I let you in?

Did I betray the whim,

the quickening wish that you had

noticed, instead, my breasts?

Begonias––Brazilian as Carnaval.

In that instant I undressed.

My clothes, abandoned,

danced like revellers

in the carnal swirling

that consumed my hall.

I stood before you

wearing only flowers,

my trembling breasts

a spectacle

of orange begonia petals.

The parade evaporated

as swiftly as it reigned.

I put my wanton reverie away

as I would stake a rebel blossom

or tuck my naked bosom

into a camisole.

ii

You noticed my orange begonias

among the scarlet, the lemon and coral,

ivory and rosé.

And I felt you had distinguished

something in me––

that leaves in the shape of wings

would cradle and sustain me,

would hold me as you could not.

My NDP begonias.

You reminded me I chose them

for their colour months before––

bright orange like the lawn sign

that sprouted on its metal stem

and wanted solidarity.

I have never seen your garden

but I know your politics.

Conjecture: an assembly

of conservative blues––

beds of forget-me-nots,

legions of bachelor’s buttons.

But you are not a bachelor.

That truth can’t be concealed

beneath a modest garment,

behind a garden wall.

iii

You had come for lunch,

to celebrate the moon.

Once in a blue moon, we had said.

I returned to what was prudent.

It was noon

and the moon was hours away

from her evening performance.

The blue moon is remote, I thought,

solemn and distant,

like something bequeathed

and sparely delivered.

We shudder under

her legacy of glow.

She’s an open mouth

with operatic precision

sounding only no.

My begonias are suns.

Their petals are warm

and smoothly toothed

as toddlers’ smiles.

They ruffle in the wind

like wave-tossed bodies

buoyant in orange life vests.

They’re a convention of fireflies,

a flame-eater’s encore,

a dalliance of orioles

descending from the skies.

iv

You brought me a bottle of wine

and a story about the label:

an artist sketched the winery

from his window near the caves.

Gilded cursive over Roman arches,

vaults of greyscale stone.

Suddenly the palette stirred––

mere gold surrendered

to pigments of ochre, azure and clay.

The walls collapsed; the miles unmapped.

I saw the hillside vineyard––its arbours

draped in grapes. Burdened vines

bowed like tender lovers.

Sunlit tendrils stretched

like fingers, offering their fruit.

You opened the bottle.

I chose to ignore

the escaping wisp

of genie’s breath.

It circled us and vanished

like a shimmering mistral.

And I noticed your white wine

was from a place called Orange.

v

I served on cobalt glassware––

blue, reflective pools.

Circles of composure

in honour of the moon.

But on the plates––

the dazzle of carrots, sun-drunk

mangoes, red pepper coulis,

pillows of tofu on beds

of basmati, feathered

with lemon grass,

coriander-fanned.

A study in contrasts––

a mingling of energies––

rivals on the colour wheel––

you and me.

vi

It was time for you to go.

You are gone now. Begone.

You are better not to know

the petals in my heart

are heavy and dishevelled.

And my desire dances

in perpetual Carnaval

where orange begonias

endlessly beckon

beneath my deceptively

disciplined breasts.