CHELIDONIUM MAJUS 30C
I spun up a phone disk of ninety million names,
and found her in Denver, after forty years,
her bright face, her delicious body,
divorced, an accountant, doing homeopathy.
Told her I had migraines, sometimes bad,
and a little blue tube from France came in the mail,
full of white pills the size of BB shot,
one to be put under my tongue, every day.
I imagine that single flower, that swooping swallow,
alterative, cathartic, expectorant, diuretic,
that celandine diluted into a space
reaching beyond Orion, beyond the Pleiades,
blooming in the void, vision of Georgia O’Keefe,
with a green bud like the flower in the garland
I watched sinking in the sea past Diamond Head
sailing from Hawai’i when I was two years old,
becoming the green light of Orion’s nebula
that started for earth before her face was shining,
whatever it does for my head in the gross world of carbon,
becoming the sweet taste of memory under my tongue.