Because You Left Me a Handful of Daffodils

 I suddenly thought of Brenda Hatfield, queen

of the 5th grade, Concord Elementary.

A very thin, shy girl, almost

as tall as Audrey Hepburn,

but blond.

 

She wore a dress based upon the principle

of the daffodil: puffed sleeves,

inflated bodice, profusion

of frills along the shoulder blades

and hemline.

 

A dress based upon the principle of girl

as flower; everything unfolding, spilling

outward and downward: ribbon, stole,

corsage, sash.

 

It was the only thing I was ever

Elected. A very short king.

I wore a bow tie, and felt

Like a third-grader.

 

Even the scent of daffodils you left

reminds me. It was a spring night.

And escorting her down the runway

was a losing battle, trying to march

down among the full, thick folds

of crinoline, into the barrage of her

father's flashbulbs, wading

the backwash of her mother's

perfume: scared, smiling,

tiny, down at the end

of that long, thin, Audrey Hepburn arm,

where I was king.

 

Max Garland, The Postal Confessions (University of Massachusetts Press, 1995)