Cheryl's Pulse
Cheryl darted around me like a hummingbird
seeking sweet nectar from a sunburned body.
Sad to disappoint, my pheromones cast
an unpleasant gardener odor. Sweaty. Dirty.
Covered in fertilizer head to toe, I wavered
yet stood like a pillar of nourishment unbound.
My misleading appearance deserved far less
than received: undaunted, Cheryl fluttered
around me backwards, forwards (upside down
in my mind's eye), so I let her build imagination's nest
high upon my shoulders, feed on honeyed thoughts,
flick her tongue on crimson hands like a red cardinal flower.
I hung like a ring around Cheryl's neck—a cameo portrait
out of place in time, eternally etched by a summer breeze.