Three Poems

Three Poems by Paul Meunier

Previously Rejected

Common Peonies1

long grown
for their late spring
display
of colourful
and fragrant
blooms

plants form
an upright bush
of dark green leaves
large double red
flowers
that last well

trim
old stems
to the

ground
ground
ground
ground

ground
ground
ground
ground

swells
of perfume
flood the palm

svelte handfuls
of lipstick
and light

interferometry beams
turn orthant’s graph
to glow

radars blue
and solar gold
bergs of lantern rigor

outgrow all

Common Peonies

1 Lines 1-16 quoted from “Paeonia officinalis ‘Rubra Plena’,” Valleybrook International Ventures Inc., http://www.perennials.com/plants/paeonia-officinalis-rubra-plena.html, 2017.


Tulipa 'Calgary' 2

mimics the
white-capped
peaks of the
Canadian Rockies

perched on stems
above lance-shaped leaves
elegant
cup-shaped blooms
have six tepals

they prefer full
to partial sun

once leaves
yellow
cut plants
to the

ground
ground
ground
ground

ground
ground
ground
ground

bursts
of ink map
the canvas
sepia to rubious

letters crave synecdoche
encamped in the
vessel
of two lips

petals chafe
explode on a glacial loudspeaker
all speeches and teeth

chomp at hymn
the appellative 'we'

Tulipa Calgary

2 Lines 1-16 quoted from “TULIPA ‘Calgary’,” Learn2Grow, Preferred Commerce Inc., http://www.learn2grow.com/plants/tulipa-calgary/, 2017.


Spring Equinox

I wrap myself in tungsten,
pin the yellow linen on my hip.

Am I the burst of peony
or the bell of tulip? The sun is down,
but either way I flicker, trill, and ring.
March tendons lift
the April wing.

He comes tonight
in a plume of vellum hair,
taste buds tipped for eight,
tonguing at the creatured steak,
unspooled on cooing, porcelain
clay pigeons.

He smells like
woodchips
in my honey
violin.

I knuckle lemon dish soap
in the sink,
poke at cutlery
when the foot of a wine glass
plinks!
above me.

The cupboard, a creak,
his forearm,
trickling down the fibres on my neck.
The room is hot like honeydew
and pearls
hit my back.

He laughs in timbre,
flashes out his arm
and knocks peppercorns across
my formica,
shaker rolling like the stem of a tulip
downhill.

I am May long.
I am long for May,
for the frost to kill.

Around the corner,
the swaggering tap of a snare
tattarrattat
catclaws as his coarse hands fumble,
push, and pry.

The pin on my hip comes loose
and I bite his earlobes,
incisor shy.

He conjures my middle name,
that snare, that pianissimo
is mine.

The snip of percussion
burgeons us on,
we are tungsten bugs, unsung,
roaming the mouth of the copper
bedroom.

The pulse of the beat
at the base of punctuation,
the buckle of my belt between his hands,
verb coming on to verb,
I am dipping in the mercury tonight.

Blood rush.
Black light.

Bedsheets tucked into corners
where the herringbone sock hangs over,
mocks and arches backward,
then flits beneath the titters
of our feet.

We are lightbulbs
unscrewed, silver caps.
We curl into trails of heat.

Prayer for Semester's End

Preliminary Assembly Instructions for an IKEA MALM 3-Drawer Chest as Essayed by an Addled Cormac McCarthy All Squatted and Mean in His Addlement