Epilogue

prologue lasted months;

epilogue, now, even longer.

the heart of this bittersweet novella?

one week.

so alive, so dense

with hope & fear,

tension & anticipation,

longing, sweet pleasure & then

your swift desertion.

I have become for you

apparition,

flat thing

no longer person

who moves you

no longer lover

who holds sway

over your spirit

or flesh.

I have become for you a pressed flower.

I have never been

a delicate blossom,

the kind found pressed,

made into exquisite stationery

veins of petals

leaking their fragility

precious for looking

but not for touching.

I am coarse wild flower.

Voluptuous Black-eyed Susan.

Blatant Coneflower.

Edgy Yarrow.

If I leak anything,

it is pollen

that smears

on your hands,

reminds you

of Possibility & Abundance.

No soft-cover best seller

will do your dirty work.

No,

to press and flatten me,

you need a truly heavy book.

Perhaps Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate, 11^th edition,

hardbound

hefty

awkward to hold.

I can just see you

holding a flower

pulled from the humid field

with stream and sun

and your sweat.

An agonizing moment

Of loss and relief.

You return home.

Open dictionary.

Vacillate between pages

topped with guide words

past or future.

Either way

the book does not close

flatly

evenly

cleanly.

Not at first.

Perhaps

in time.

There must be such danger

in my remaining

the full breadth

width

height

you once knew me to be

once held in your arms

once enveloped

with your urgent kisses.

I do not know

whether to envy

or rage

at you,

at how you’ve turned me

into this two-dimensional figment

no longer full-bodied person

but now pressed flower

bookmark

phantom.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston