The ancients knew they could heal you or kill,
their pure rapture of snow-white and sun-gold
drawing humans’ lust to gaze, like Greek lad filled
with his own beauty. Lust to taste, enfold
on tongue, craving cure. Curl of corona
(word we no longer love) praised by poets.
What brings me to bring you bouquets on a
silver platter etched with prayer? You know it’s
my care, my fear you could heal or kill me
with a mere smile or glance away, though you’d
never see me reveal it, my mute plea
for pure rapture of your snow-white, sun-gold
glazed by subtle smile. You study your face
in the mirror, then me, guarding my place.
Roger Armbrust
June 26, 2020
