Autumn Cyclamen

Autumn cyclamen,
booby-trapping underfoot
like a mistimed spring,

clutch of shame’s blushes,
flock of flamingos balanced
on slender stemware

or mad flight of hats,
magenta origami,
by Schiaparelli,

above ground, you stand
poised as flames on candlewicks,
but under earth I

know you’re a heavy
dark mass, circular tuber,
a flat severed breast

like a loaf of bread,
toughened and covered in dirt,
bouquet overhead.

I can’t help but think
of that cruel fairy tale
about the proud girl

who trod on a loaf
to spare her new shoes crossing
a puddle of mud.

Down she sank, down, past
the Marsh Witch’s brewery,
to hell’s portals, where

Andersen leaves her
grounded a lifetime waiting
for mercy’s stale crumb.

Don’t be the proud girl
brought low – that’s the lesson. Come,
teach me another:

the root, round anchor
of buoyant exuberance.
Proud girls, you gorgons,

gorgeous in your gowns,
rising back unrepentant
out of your loam house,

tiptoe fripperies,
overlook my misreading.
I still see her yell

as the loaf sinks, shock
of ankles sucked down in muck,
her pink silk stockings.