Peony

Kelly Hoffer

the buds will open, or
if it is Tuesday, and you are still in California
will they remain
buds, willing to be but no
you to witness the unfolding. will they
unfold from their budshells, or huddle
as beetles, crimp wing
shriveling down
to a nut—
the weight of petals, cellulose
ribboning and suffocating
lace, muffle and ply. may I
may I breathe here—will you—
no, no breath
in a room filled with petals.

ants crawl over the pink  
nectar-searching,  
they do not hurt the blossoms 
nor do the blossoms need them  
to open but I comfort  
in the tracing of pale surfaces  
to inners and 
the ants eating away fibrous tissues 
unletting  
the waxy string that holds all of it 
together, and then the petals will  
come undone 
and fall as hair de-furling from a knot 
held so long and plaited,  
texture pressed, pleasured 
and lowered, you pulled the tie 
from my hair with desperate  
trying to smell  
me all at once each cell  
in collision in comet 
a ruffling of folded tin  
crumpled newspaper that writhes and 
unfolds in flame 
extinction in blue smoke—

but if you are  
are still in California on Tuesday, still it
is impossible to know as the peonies
are not yet blooming  
yet full to the nubbins, the very sepal
tired of holding  
all the petals that must be inside, how many
numbers are no answer 
as they separate one  
from the next, not the number  
that I need  
which is a pleated thing swelling along interstice
to lower the thread between 
a you and an I  
searching  
something that helps me count 
the time we have  
been together and the swelling 
of the time we must be  
apart, so that we may 
may we just now, be it 
that we have these peonies 
the peonies in their fullness make
me want, want to get married 
in May.