Lilac

by REBECCA DINERSTEIN

April 2009

Lover, I’ve made you a paper lilac
after spend­ing some time at the tree.
I think the con­struc­tion is right,
a few scraps, wound into strands, mak­ing
a coiled vine that accu­mu­lates into bunch blossoms.

When you come to get it,
I will insist that you take my top off
and you will attribute its fra­grance to my skin.
We are good liars and good kissers.

Even­tu­ally, I will go with a stranger
to the tree and lie there with him,
not pick­ing the lilacs, which will feel very roman­tic,
not promis­ing to fash­ion any­thing in his image
or the image of nature, not com­par­ing this lilac
to the one before it, only reck­on­ing how much longer
the sun will be up, and rev­el­ing in how dusk
takes the color off flow­ers and puts it behind them.
The night lands. It is not like red, or even black.

Rebecca Din­er­stein is a senior in Yale College.