Ariadne Sends a Bouquet of Dandelions 

On these yellow flowers, he was fed, a brew 

to strengthen him to battle, to brave our minotaur. 

Dear Phaedra, I’ll always be the one who led 

him out of father’s maze, red thread wound round 

and round my ring finger. You can’t erase me, 

even with a curse. I was, in fact, the first. 

Yes, you may remind me, how he sailed away 

without a word, from Naxos. And true, he married 

you instead—but, sister, he’s still sailing. 

What new seas has he now discovered? Above

what sweet lips has he hovered?  I may have woken 

to disenchantment, but I also woke to a better man, 

a god who soothed the crying girl, lifted her from 

the sand, and even now, eyes her over the grapes 

at breakfast. So, go ahead, and claim that throne. 

You still wander, room to room, alone, no true 

queen—just a second or third happening. And

your desperation’s showing plain as the grey streak 

in your hair. No wonder your stepson hurries 

his pace away from your glances. And you should 

know, dear sister, your fickle husband won’t 

truck good for goose, good for gander. Mark 

my words, in this folly, you’ll lose. You can pull 

up all of Hecate’s weeds and blow your wishes 

seed by seed to a thousand winds. But you’ll 

only find yourself deceived, left with stems, 

and ragged leaves, sharp as lion’s teeth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is the Blue Hydrangea

“ In Japan. . .an emperor supposedly gave hydrangeas to a maiden he loved as an apology for neglecting her when other business took up all his attention. . . Victorians were not as fond of the hydrangea. . .the flowers were sent to declare someone a boaster or braggart, or to chastise someone for their frigidity.”

—thetsubaki.com

 

Here you are, my former Adam, 

iced down to the ground. 

And still you burst forth, like bright 

blooms reopening out of old wood—

blue as the color of swimming. 

You’re right, I cannot help temptation. 

Yet, even reborn, you remain ingestible, 

cyanide thriving in your petals. 

You send bouquets to say you’re sorry. 

You send bouquets to accuse me of frigidity. 

I can no longer decipher blue’s true 

symbol just the lawn’s raw edge. 

I’ve discovered I cannot make you less 

deadly. I cannot keep you from rattling 

me like a serpent. But if you will ask 

me to throat your poison, if you want 

me kept—a drowning Eve—

I will burn what’s left and say: 

I blacken your bloom, I refuse your seed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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