Our lady of the feather duster
Karen Rossouw
Your beauty would surprise me,
overtake me like some cop car engaged in a high-speed chase
On a Californian highway, lights flashing, sirens wailing,
ten thousand people glued to their TV sets watching the episode wherein your beauty overtakes
me and wins me over, pins me to the earth and then sets me reeling.
I am now repotted and live in the garden,
nestled between rows of pink houses, arid hills and patios.
Here we lie in the moonlight and whimper. We laugh
and bake cakes among hummingbirds and weedeaters.
And then your beauty surprises me and overtakes me
like a blizzard in Las Vegas, a flash flood in the Southwest.
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