Musings by The Poet Loriet

Clash

I resent the fact
that she wears green
as if she could nurture
fertile flowers or
sip nectar from the sun.

No, she is deep velvet black,
her contours conceal
strobe light flash,
disco irridescence--
until the seizures begin.

And she stains you
like sunshine yellow globs
of pimiento cheese
slopped on an
ethereal white
virgin.

Lori Beal