Squash Blossoms Early before the sun has risen high enough to lick the dew from the petals I rise and go to gather squash blossoms for breakfast. My fingers brush the leaves aside, and grasp the stem to snap the flower free. the hairs itch, I scratch, and redness blooms across my skin. I rinse and dip into the slip of beaten eggs dredge across crumbs, and drop onto the heat. I turn them, as they sizzle, and the smell rises to my nose. I think of you, of the blossom of your sex, of the slip of your wetness, the heat of your mouth I close my eyes, and think that you will never be of the darling buds of May but of the extravagant blossoms of the squash in June. I almost burn our breakfast. © E. Howe 2002 All rights reserved