Heather Flores


the nun and the rooster

(for W.B. Yeats)


Born in Lubbock, but raised in Plano, Heather Flores lived there for 32 years and then in the fall of 2003, she moved with her newlywed husband down to the subtropical paradise between the sublime Everglades and the healing waters of the Atlantic. She's a writing consultant at FAU’s Center for Excellence in Writing. She has the best husband and menagerie-family on the planet. She loves mermaids, her kitchen, the Star Wars trilogy, saying her animal-children’s’ names throughout the day like Gregorian chants, Ticonderoga Noir pencils, San Antonio, Fort Myers, champagne on Friday nights, Big Tex, and being alive. 



peony seeds comfort the nun’s small hand

as she steps out of the convent

light as a gray kitten on a stone wall

compliant as a lunambulist


(she never plants when the moon has an evil position

and she falls when the moon is young)


the moon shows her night face

and the lawn changes its character

the midnight grass awakens the nun’s bright white feet

caresses the hem of her pleated habit

as she floats down a river of ancient voices


the new moon stares over the trees

her shadow of wholeness clearly drawn

she knows the ancient voices upon which the nun floats

she hears them too…


16th century Indian concubine bedizened and perfumed to her king's liking

Mexican brothel girl comforting as a pumpkin empanada on Sunday morning

Massachusetts Puritan with fire under her austere dress

ivory-faced housewife with perfect beribboned blonde hair

Danielle Bowden in blue tank, pink panties

the Young Girl with glossy red lips in silk frock, man’s fedora

Marie Duplessis in long cashmere shawl but naught besides


…the moon cloaks herself in silvery clouds

tries to quiet the moaning in her pear-womb

the nun’s womb moans, melodious with the moon’s

perfectly in tune, they warble

their sonorous moan stirs the slumbering rooster at the base of a full tree on the convent lawn

his sable and sienna feathers rustling like cabbage palms in the wind

he opens one amber eye

takes a long flagon drink of her pretty luminescent feet

deeply inhales the thick tropical air


startled the nun lets the seeds fall from her dainty hand


he acts upon her soul by the breath of his suggestion
and she stretches out on the grass under the trees

he eases one sable wing inside her pleats

raises her skirts with his other wing

and the heady scent of dusting powder rises from her thighs to titillate his nostrils

over her head she raises her bare white arms
(and in the moonlight, downed with light brown hair)
one slender white wrist over the other

the grass tickles her fine down

and the rooster contemplates the nun-girl whose offer is his need

then pushes his feathered glory between her loosening thighs
holds her wrists with the wing that raised her skirts


their coupling makes peony and rose spill from her apron pocket

and their obstreperous joy rises up

filling the bowl of sky until the stars spill over

and cataract down on the writhing couple below


© The Acentos Review 2015