Florecitas

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Ay, florecitas

clouds of white

frozen in sugary divine,

little flowers of my soul,

taste of sweet desire

of little boys in

San Juan, Moroves, Ponce,

exiles in Miami and the Bronx

tasting the beauty

of their mother’s youth—

 

knowing love by the rattling

of small blooms in the big tin,

the maternal hand scooping

pastels of confection perfection,

passions hard creamy diffusion

dusting her, making her

a florecita of love—

 

until florecitas became the way

they interpreted the sky—

there a lavender snail,

an erupting volcano,

a devouring whirlpool,

a burst of flame

a feeding octopus—

 

until all became

the florecitas

of their beloveds form:

her lips a strawberry florecita

splitting apart to his

first hesitant probing,

her breasts a pink florecita

waiting for his sweet consumption,

her sex a light brown florecita

gently swirling open

to his tongue’s taste,

ass a fleshy little flower

to be split in

his sweet embrace,

all of her earthy and sexy

as a Neruda sonnet—

 

until all that is left

for themselves,

for my self,

is the fading scents

of all the florecitas

never tasted.

 

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