THIS MORNING, |
I looked down at my hands and watched a wound bloom with blood. To compare this plasma to a flowering thing: amaryllis, orchid, chrysanthemum. To memorize creases, freckles, the sight of this knife finding its way into flesh. All day, the breeze burns my ears, eyes blurring as sunlight filters through oak, pain from skull to coccyx at that golden color, unbearable, the haze so beautiful it’s hard to believe it’s real. Miles away, my mother organizes her top-drawer & finds a box of my teeth. My mother tells me love never lasts— a dried-up river with parched rocks. Nothing left to drink. |