Day Ten

And on the tenth day,

you tried to fly me away

to California.

“I offer you this bouquet of begonias

and will take you down Route 66

to the movies.

Will you take my hand,

purple and bleeding,

when sick and dying,

and be my friend?”

I’ve known miserable America,

I say,

and I’ve walked from

Chicago to Santa Monica.

And I know

that here in the mountains,

a begonia is

a penny a dozen.

I take them

and feed them sugar,

water,

and will, one day, press them:

hang them upside down,

dipped in red,

which has been extracted from my head,

and remember you

once the honeymoon ends.

California dreaming.

The lucky one is leaving.

Yes,

I’ve known happiness

before the flower dies.

I’ve written about it.

I’ve planted gardens before.

I am God in that respect,

and have known Adam.

He has my regards.

And I’ve known you, Santosh,

for less than a fortnight,

and am content

with the garden you promise:

a vase.

But if you were the one,

you would plant them outside

and stay long enough

to watch them bloom.

I take your hand

and lead you there—

to the place

where we can plant begonia seeds.