Rank towers of rholoub look drained,
snap to the touch, a cigarette-stain yellow;
but, like lambs that love their own slaughter,
fat threbolds are sucked in by the saucy, heady blooms.
On steamy afternoons, I find those threbolds
half-comatose but still sucking on petal blur,
passionately sipping the violet blood,
feet stuck in place, copper eyes unguent-dulled.
Overnight, the wide chunky petals drip with threbolds.
Come morning, it’s the plant’s turn to feed,
nibble like a spider on its trapped intruders.
To me, the odor of rholoub feasting is raw and caustic,
prompts an agitation in each nostril,
a queasiness in the stomach.
To threbolds this is a blessed place to die,
better than the stinging execution of the hive.
All night, they cling like fruit on a tree
so their host can rejuvenate with pleasure.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Soul Ink. I have spent a lifetime as a curator of my own library which has historically contained more books than I will ever hope to read.