Flower of Blood

pastel, Odilon Redon

Wading out to hip deep, she thought, where did
all that precious blood come from, anyway?

Pond silt bloomed soft and spread with her steps
as she and the lotus reached toward each other,

the one saying “Chlorophyll, chlorophyll,” and the
other saying, “Blood.” Smiling, they nodded,

achieving a perfect conduit, a consonance
so pure that the sun stretched and coiled and the

green pulsed and lifted full the lid of its
                                                                        great eye.

(quoted dialogue taken from "My Own House," by David Ignatow)

Tim McLafferty lives in NYC and works as a drummer. He has played on Broadway in  Urinetown, Grey Gardens, and many other places. His poetry appears in  Barrow Street, decomP, Painted Bride Quarterly, Pearl, Portland Review and elsewhere. timmclafferty.com