By: Vanessa Rodgers
A black eyed beauty
She has long, thin petals
Just enough to round and fringe
Her center, a black pom pom
She could disguise a bee in her core,
As it leaves digested pollen, taking and giving
Regurgitations. She’s tender to the touch,
She is not the smell of a new baby’s skin;
Her eye feels dark and freshly
Opens to see a world in a light
That she is never meant to know.
Its depth holds secrets, surfacing.
She is not her purple swells,
Yellowing outer edges,
But a still sky of darkness at her core,
Abandoning pastels for veiling guise.
She is the first time innocence meets sin,
Grappling recovery, unsure, aimlessly tenacious.
Her shame,
Displayed for all to see what
Polluted skin will never forget;
Her stem stands strong and straight
Unwilling to be masked,
Demanding to be known
To be healed and whole, valued.
Black Eyed Susan, who did this to you?
She is not like baby’s breath:
She is not quaint, pure, accentuating
Other more vivacious flowers.
Drawing attention, she breathes forest fires over
Twigs and brush, she is not brushed aside,
Not overlooked by baby smiles.
She rarely really smiles,
But when she does
She demands all eyes in the vicinity.
No, the black eyed susan is not a baby anything at all;
She is not sweet, shallow, breath without history.
She is fierce, and striking, and full of mystery.
