by Ellynna Gomes
Before the flaxen wall, upon a mustard table,
this maize vase sits. Its lemon lips are
bursting with yellow sunflowers.
They drip like honey, twist like ivory,
peppered with petals as bright as sunbeams.
These sunflowers appreciate their golden purpose.
They broadcast their butterscotch fragrance. Through the
painted oils I smell the colors of its harvest: the floral spice of
saffron, the sour citrus, and the heady fruit flavors of bananas,
mangoes, papayas, pineapples, grapefruit, jackfruit, starfruit,
and cantaloupe. Bronze blossoms surmount this ensemble,
illuminated by sunshine. They bounce like a bumblebee
does in a daydream, mellowed by their sepia stigmata.
The lime greens of their gangly frames twist as vines
do to uphold their royal crowns or to hold them
down, obliged to face the ground in disgrace
or perhaps to realize their flavescent class.
Vincent, as corny as he was or maybe to
divide the seas of yellow, wrote his
name in azure upon that maize
vase of yellow sunflowers.