Attempt at a Theory of Begonias

Words tremble on petals 

like the first air in an infant’s lung,

pink as the tip of Marilyn Monroe’s

tongue.


The begonias whisper among themselves 

of the roses’ red scandal.

Bought. Crushed

in the backseat of a chevy

under tangled limbs, then retrieved, 

sworn to secrecy.


Begonias, those lips of spun sugar,

spilling the tea at the ladies’ brunch.


The pink of fiesta balloons. Yet

further inside is the deepest pink no one sees

where sharks swim among coral reefs

and Time itself is

submerged

to nothing but a barely-there pink

a non-sequitur 

a last kiss in the roller rink.

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Emily Brink is a 47-year-old poet from the San Francisco Bay Area. She has been published in Arsenic Lobster and Bowery Gothic.