• By Michael R. Burch

To Flower


When Pentheus [“grief’] went into the mountains in the garb of the baccae, his mother [Agave] and the other maenads, possessed by Dionysus, tore him apart (Euripides, Bacchae; Apollodorus 3.5.2; Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.511-733; Hyginus, Fabulae 184). The agave dies as soon as it blooms; the moonflower, or night-blooming cereus, is a desert plant of similar fate.

We are not long for this earth, I know—

you and I, all our petals incurled,

till a night of pale brilliance, moonflower aglow.

Is there love anywhere in this strange world?

The agave knows best when it’s time to die

and rages to life with such rapturous leaves

her name means Illustrious. Each hour more high,

she claws toward heaven, for, if she believes

in love at all, she has left it behind

to flower, to flower. When darkness falls

she wilts down to meet it, where something crawls:

beheaded, bewildered. And since love is blind,

she never adored it, nor watches it go.

Can we be as she is, moonflower aglow?

Charon MMI

I, too, have stood—

paralyzed at the helm

watching onrushing, inevitable disaster.

I too have felt sweat (or ecstatic tears) plaster

damp hair to my eyes, as a slug’s dense film

becomes mucous-insulate.

Always, thereafter

living in darkness, bright things overwhelm.

Michael R. Burch is the editor of The HyperTexts, on-line at www.thehypertexts.com, where he has published hundreds of poets over the past twenty years. His poetry has been translated into eleven languages and set to music by three composers. A five-time Pushcart nominee, his poems, translations and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary journals, including Light Quarterly, The Lyric, Measure, Iambs & Trochees, Blue Unicorn, The Chariton Review, The Chimaera, Able Muse, Lucid Rhythms, Poem Today, Asses of Parnassus, Writer’s Digest—The Year’s Best Writing and The Best of the Eclectic Muse.

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