Calla Lily
Michael E. O'Reilly

Bottom-curled
    calla lily stalks
slump out of a
    tight-fitting bag,
the stems scored
    too far up,
the woman at
    the store said.
Bulbous, beautiful
    and tumor-like,
slick, intestinal—
    all my hopeful
intentions wrapped,
    brought home to a
glass vase, stood
    upright, balanced
on hobbled, twisted
    toes—a yellow
pollen tongue
    trumpets the
royal arrival
    of white petals,
conical, wide,
    opening up like
mushroom clouds
    of coffee cream
like the roll and
    boil of storm
clouds across
    the plain like
folds of dust
    spreading around
helicopters
    touching gently
down like
    butterflies with
sore feet, like
    loaves of bread
falling from trucks,
    or seven irons hit
high to
    rain-soaked
Bermuda greens.