Corpse Flower
A rare blooming corpse flower rests
against an ancient cross. Its unsavory
perfume inhabits this abandoned cemetery
like a bedridden corpulent man’s festering
sores. Heavy fog swaths the unharvested
valley below, blocking our view. Imaginary
scent drifts in unholy waves when carried
on winds from the river, unnecessarily
giving us all time to pause and consider
the direction our eccentric lives are heading
from rather humble working-class roots
in farm country to scrounging for glittering
trinkets in this sacred place, dreading
war if we’re found with this bag of loot.
Cherimoya Vine
I dream of fruit that tastes of cherries and apples.
A seed filters through the fingers of my right hand,
grows fast and strong in fertile Nebraska land,
covers an arbor in a year, provides dappled
shade for the crop the second season, comparable
to fruit of the Cherimoya tree in Ecuadorian highlands,
banana and papaya custard heaven secondhand
to none, many often wish it grew across the map.
The magic of my dream changes this little seed
into a wonder-vine that flourishes at low altitudes
as in my agricultural zone five, sweet fruit
like the pawpaw that grew easy as a weed,
nourishing early settlers, a favorite food
of George Washington who wanted no substitute.
Lin Marshall Brummels is a Nebraska licensed mental health practitioner and certified professional counselor. She earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and a master’s degree In Rehabilitation Counseling from Syracuse University. She has published a poetry chapbook and has poetry in journals, magazines and anthologies.
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