JEANNE LARSEN

The Garden of Sex II

Here, purples of salvia cast
tiered whorls of shade

from each small dark torch.
Their lingering pungency

masks every doubt. Their
healing denies

any violence, the incisions of loss.
They gainsay with blurred

coaxing silences
the sulphurous tansy's sun-stricken

risk. And so they erase
its posed oppositions—sly poison

or bright, piquant herb? One
more thing

doubled. You might wish
for more clarity. Still,

believe this: there's no wounding here, no
griefs, deprivation. Only

what seeps and what tangles,
denying you nothing, or nothing

you want.