Azalea

American Poetry Review, The, Sep/Oct 1996 by Fried, Daisy

ought to be the name of someone you love. it's why they come here, the tired brides, the men, the maids so-called in ill-fitted dresses. you'd almost like to see flamingos here stepping to the bending of trees and where the flower beds grow to, and then the plaque that says who and what it's all about.

you know inside is the cataract of life. out here is for photos, what to show your friends because it's how to believe they love you if they nod and squeeze your upper arm in delight for the flowers all flamey for the flowers all swooney are sure delightful. i don't know about flowers. i can't think what i do know about really. ok, none of the flowers have names. the gardeners in green caps with big plastic buckets walk like they know something about something like they know what they need to know but they don't speak english. pulling up old dead leaves and you can't see the hands the way they're inside of stickering batches. the hands the way they plunge into plastic. leaves! inside of plastic! what's all this? sorry, no, no spik ingliz. the cars hishwahhhh on kelly drive. blap blap go the shoes of runners. deciduous means a whole lot more to me. shake of tarp and sound of rake. fat kids bike thin paths. and the brides, and the brides. wish them the luck of the photographed.