December 20, 2012

Venus Flytrap by Isaac Black


Her lover didn't see the clover. Only
she did. She told him their lake bubbled
with Love-Notes, would likely taste like
pink champagne. But he didn't believe
that. Nor could he see any carousel, 
pearly white castles, or Belted Kingfisher 
at the water's edge. Can We Breaststroke? 
He asked, Where?  She jackknifed toward
bird-whistles and never-believes. On
naughty's side, she lit the Mulberry with
hoop-earrings, boot-cut jeans, apricot
panties. She spun on tip-toes, did a you-
won't-forget-this. If it was for beauty's
sake, he stuttered at the eye-ways. We're
Alone, Nobody Can See, she caroled. Look,
I'm not a busy bee, not a Venus Flytrap.
But he stood like a statue. That evening
he felt honey in his boxer-shorts.
She didn't return his calls. In October
she teased him, sending one solitary
rose. Her hand-drawn card was like
a nursery rhyme, but decorated with 
a wild flourish of interlocking hearts,
and a note. He didn't understand. In
an elegant italic, her closing aria smelt
of morning dew. She sang, Goodbye,
My New Friend Walks Like a Poet, 
will Kiss-Kiss, is Galileo, and Can Fly.





Isaac Black (an MFA graduate of Vermont College), has published in journals like the Beloit Poetry Journal, Callaloo, Poetry Quarterly, and Red River Review. Founder of a major 501(c) college help organization, he's also the recipient of fellowships from the New York State Creative Artists Service Program (CAPS) and New York Foundation of the Arts. 

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