June Bug

She moved among the tulip rows,
Upon her nimble painted toes.
And cooked the most splendid of feasts,
To serve amongst her friends the beasts.
Running her hands along their faces,
Her song the lonesomeness of spaces.
Her parents they did call her June,
Named upon that month’s new moon.
And from her blood a spell might come,
That ended all, when said and done,
And brought men to their quaking knees,
Like flu patients wracked with sneeze.

I saw he on her nightly rounds,
I tried to stop and make no sounds.
It looked as if she’d start with fear,
If I did but try to pull too near.
But stronger than that tale she was,
And stood her ground I think because,
she never heard a story told,
that was too long nor was too bold.

Curious. Yes, that was she,
Who stood her ground and looked at me.
And kissed me on my broken nose,
And smelled of lilac and of rose.
Then pushed me in a roiling sea,
And watched me drown from bended knee.
Smiling all the while she was,
From ear to ear, the way she does.
She didn’t pause, but turned on heel,
And left me to the fish and eel.

And from the deep I still must yearn,
For one silken kiss please in return.