Sue Lozynskyj

Jenny Greenteeth at Giverny

I am here in his garden,
part of a crowd which rings the lily pond.

Escape is a few wet strides in.
A cold circle climbs my body to the neck.
As I move under his Japanese bridge
and lose their voices, my hair spreads.

I study his lilies from below.
Light spears each petal, smudging pink
into haze, where stems slant down
to hungry tubers.

Willow twigs reach through
the clouded lens of the pool,
I slip under root arches
to where lattice is fine as fishnet
till gloom deepens and their footfalls cease.

Then I'm out, over lavender.
I scale cool walls on a fractious rose
and under the white coverlet on his bed, wait
for the chatelaine to find me.