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.