anemone

whatever he said, it stuck
a blob of blackberry jam, just like that.
it’s always like that, in the beginning
in the beginning of everything
my brain is flat and wide open, begging
to be etched and stained,
and then
after a period, it folds up small and tight
like a note waiting to be passed. no more room
for words, however clever they may be. but
like I said—at first, he left vermillion splatters and
magenta smears, a cocktail of fantasy distorted
like a red tide of dangerous passion
all across my bleary (but appreciative) senses. and
now although I have passed, like an anemone, into the
epoch of closed tendrils
the interior lights up with a glow of warmth
like a love note
written on the palm of a closed fist