Under the mango tree where the shade is dark and deep
she waits with years on her skin.

The face though weary with the burden of time
has not yielded to the fate
of having once loved and lost.

She believes the winds from the barren field
will one day carry the rustle of footsteps
raising a song from within earth
that the moment is arrived
for the dead river to rise in tides
and flood her cheeks with the sapplings of
all the unplanted kisses.

When the nights come
the fireflies would sing
love is such a beautiful thing
basking in the glow of her heart.

Leucothea applies Bavarian cream

to her paired slit, tending to it with

the waning crescent of no moon.

as oval handheld mirrors base the

trim of their metals on the philosophy

of ornateness--perhaps Gold.

gripped by nymphs, whose fingers

flicker off when oceanic shatters

gurgle up from temple steps.

Words are worn out
till we repolish
to repeat anew.

my mother looks at me like
a wound on her arm, unsightly
and gushing hot velvet blood

she buries me in bandages
she can't stand to watch me bleed
she can't stand me.

so she waits until i scab
until i am cold and hard and tender
until i eventually fall away

05.28.23