Because you did, I too arrange flowers, <br />Watching the pistils just like insolent tongues <br />And the hard, red flesh of the petals <br />Widening beneath my eyes. They move like the hands <br />Of clocks, seeming not to move except <br />When I turn my gaze; then savagely <br />In the white room, they billow and spread <br />Until their redness engulfs me utterly. <br /> <br />Mother, you are far away and claim <br />In mournful letters that I do not need you; <br />Yet here in this sunny room, your tulips <br />Devour me, sucking hungrily <br />My watery nourishment, filling my house <br />Like a presence, like an enemy. <br /> <br />Geared to your intervals as the small hand <br />Of a clock repeats the larger, I, <br />Your too-faithful daughter, still drag behind you, <br />Turning in the same slow circles. <br /> <br />Across the years and distances, my hands <br />Among these fierce, red blossoms repeat <br />Your gestures. I hope my daughter never writes: <br />'Because you did, I too arrange flowers.'<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/still-life-with-tulips/
