A delicate word that sits on coarse tongues
exactly how its scent floats into waiting lungs
— quietly
Its tender stem yields kindly to garlands,
its candy floss petals bow down to every breeze,
and while its sunshine heart drinks from dawns,
it barely sees the light of day
They say that many jasmines bloom
in the still secrets of nights drowned in ink;
that only fallen jasmines decked with dirt
stare the Sun sorrowfully in its eyes;
that trampled, torn, aching jasmines don't count;
Many women are still named
Jasmine