Epiphyllum oxypetalum
No need for the moon
if she is open after dark,
completely awake, a circus
of exposure. Fear to touch
her. She could slip her concentric
tongues around an index finger, or
the finger that used to wear
a ring for the pleasure of being
a de-flower, an already at an end.
Her blossom is a honeymoon, all
through the night and gone at the first
insistence of sun. Her dry sickle,
the pink cloak in the morning,
a real marriage with its hints of blood
and bloodlessness, a white-
on-white-on-white derangement,
spiked petals unlocking, un-fisting,
unleashing, her expulsion.
Andrea Carter is a poet and writer from Southern California. Her work appears in Quartet, San Diego Poetry Annual, Fourteen Hills, and The Florida Review. She is a recent Bread Loaf alum and is finishing her second novel in a YA murder mystery series. She enjoys hiking, travel, surfing, and drinking lots of coffee. She is a lecturer at UC San Diego in the Muir College Writing Program.
Follow us on Instagram, Facebook, & Twitter for updates—and visit our website to see past, present, and future readings & events.
Are you a SWWIMmer with literary news to share (publication/feature/award/book/book review)? We’d love to shout out your accomplishments in our Weekly Spotlight! Please email swwimmiami@gmail.com. (No DMs, please.)
**We do our best to preserve the integrity of each poem; however, due to programming limitations, some poems may read differently on a mobile phone and in certain browsers. For best viewing, use Chrome on a desktop/laptop.