
By Michael Roque
Copyright ©2024
Petrified on the dust-caked windowsill
collapsed outward from the entrapping mundane
My new favorite flower neglected
Brittle but with beauty still recognized
Your limbs quiver to the touch and reveal in every shared minute
Hidden beneath your dry soil
Are deep roots thirsting for moisture
But you give not a single clue on how much water you need
I’m no professional gardener
Just a man with a hose and faulty common sense
I point my nozzle over your head and contemplate an angle to spray
God, I don’t want to flood and drown you
But I couldn’t bear sprinkling only a few drops
Day by day
Fating my flower to a prolonged death
You cry for growth
I beg for nourishment
Preceding all and what’s most needed
Is faith
In my spray
In the sun and time
And the hope that I can give enough to see you bloom
There’s fruit you were born to bear
And I have a sense destined for something to savor
How much sun exposure will give you comforting warmth?
When does my shine scorch your petals?
You’re so close to growing
I can taste your flavor
sweet and succulent
A tasteful reminder of the produce I used to love
The bites
Explosions of euphoria
The satisfaction
You can give me a burst of spring to the brain
Summer sizzle to the tongue
A richness that’ll never grow from my own hand
What’s a piece of fruit if not to be enjoyed?
What's the good of a mouth if not to engorge?
Fruit has the mouth
The mouth has the fruit
We aren’t starving in the malnourished world tonight
But tomorrow’s meal you cannot promise
About Michael Roque:
Michael Roque, a Los Angeles native now residing in the Middle East, embarked on his writing odyssey amidst the bleachers of Pasadena City College. His literary voyage has traversed continents, gracing the pages of esteemed publications such as Aurora Quarterly, Veridian Review, and CascadeJournal.
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