The furniture is breathing again,
polished with sin and longing. My skin
sighs—hungry for your hands—blossoms
with brimstone & hellebore. I pluck
endless petals, whispering:
he loves me, he loves me, he loves
me… The blooms don't dare say else.
When you collapse into my flower
bed, your body flickers—flint
& electricity—heart shuddering
between my parted lips. You thistle
against my soft belly, growing harder.
A tumult of vines and viscera breathing
death and life into each other: graveyards
become gardens, adorned
with brambles & bones. Deflowered
headstones crumble with cries,
coins fall from the eyes of so many sleepless
dead as you bury me in your unfathomable wealth.
Tangled in sleep, you tiptoe
through my dreams. I wind
tendrils of ivy around you—
grasp at your trespassing ankles.
These seasons are seconds:
you're gone again. The hallways feel
hollow without you and the terror of your
dog. All the flowers in my house die
for want of you—I gather them
in my arms, murmuring secrets
in their wilting petals, composing
bouquets of rotting love notes.
I send garlands across the ghost
river, arriving at your feet, weeping
to be kept in your world.
The stories have it wrong: you never forced
me to stay. I collected your jeweled seeds
on my tongue. Showed you my devotion
before I swallowed you, smiling.
Reed Magazine—Issue 155