Erin Murphy

Rhododendron


I want a rhododendron,
its waxy evergreen leaves,

its bursts of purple
in early spring. No

I want to be a rhododendron,
sprawling yet hardy,

a woman who sits
on the bed’s edge and leans

into your story while
massaging lotion

into her tapered arms and legs.
Or maybe I want the word

rhododendron, how it travels rhythmically
along the roof of the mouth,

the way a driver taps
the rim of an open window

to the beat of a song
on the radio. But not

just any song—
a deep cut. A song

she forgot she
knew. Forgot she loved.