The come-hither hibiscus aims its pistil

straight at your face, petals outspread

in invitation. You can almost catch

the roses’ heady scent, their variations

from palest pink to scarlet and carnelian,

the blush that blooms along the lover’s throat.

Gladiolus gestures up; lilac and heather

(just for contrast) stand erect and azure.
Even the spout points out at you,

revealing the side on which the lines

conjoin, wedding night mehndi

or the V of a woman’s upper thighs.

And the table-mat, gorgeously embroidered,

looks morning-after rumpled; its white

directs the eye to the cupboard behind.

What vibrant stories might be locked inside?


Note:

This poem is after Bouquet de fleurs au napperon brodé by Suzanne Valadon, 1930