LYING IN A LAVENDER FIELD IN LATE JUNE

I am the only whitish thing, and the
bees that flock by the thousands see me as
no more than a place to drop for a stop

before they resume their feeding, grasping the
head of the plant like a mouth-starved lover,
tongue deep into the corolla where the fragrant

pollen attracts. I am naked in this sea
of green and violet, resting against
the long stalks that hold me up in a buoyant

float. I am rubbed and rained into a floral
scent. My hair is wreathed; my skin pocked
lavender lavish. I am made ready to

grasp and give scent, to liquify summer
glee into nectared kisses, to buzz
and hum, mouth-hungry for sweet life.

Robert Rothman lives in Northern California, near extensive trails and open space, with the Pacific Ocean over the hill. His work has appeared in Atlanta Review, the Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Tampa Review, Willow Review, and over seventy-five other literary journals. Please see Robert’s website www.robertrothmanpoet.com for more information.