In the Garden       

Daring in the garden, aren't you?
Dancing over leaves, plucking out the fragrance of the flowers
for yourself, squeezing the sweet smell in through
your horrid, crooked nostrils
until your lungs burn with delight.
You believe the mistress can't see you, peering through
the window, your ugly face distorted by the candle flame.
How much do your weak, bedeviled eyes see?
Does her beauty make you shudder as it does normal men?
Does she tempt you? Is that why you crawl from the garden
on your belly, hiding your shame?
Too late.
The Mistress has caught your scent befouling her flowers and
has seen your hideous body
planted in the dirt like a fat mushroom.
Turn your lips up in a smile as you gaze upon her sacred form
and freeze in that pose.
For eternity.

Christopher Hivner