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Apr 2010 · 866
elegy to her baby blue
briana olive Apr 2010
send me a breeze, baby blue
maybe i'll swim on that love, to
her speckle-dust cobwebs
fingerstemmed
in her skin
tinting my feathered heart
with her mosaic smile,
shards of a past she screams,
"stay a while,


baby blue"
long enough to hold her frozen hands,
kicking at the ashes
sift.
sift through
breaststroke through the debri


i caught your smile,
and fed it to,
the holes in her heart
wearing her
in
out

in & out.
Apr 2010 · 780
firefly child
briana olive Apr 2010
one minute;
she could hear her own heels clicking,
clicked
against the sharpened dirt of her backyard
next minute;
the patterns of her footsteps lost,
as the ground puzzle-piece disappeared
beneath her firefly laced eyes;

one minute;
gasping cold water breaths,
as the laughter rang bright in the ears
of a mother, a father
chasing after ponytailed hair,
laughter rang bright in the ears
of a mother, a father
next minute;
choking on her paralyzing
wonder, the ground choking
on the dust splitting,
split
beneath the absence of the
click in her heels


I wonder if her eyes closed before she
plunged into the depths of her knowledge’s death
I wonder,
what schemes she sought,
            that would forever be,
            incomplete.

Did she bloom roses?
            Petals buried beneath
            the debris
of a mother, a father.
briana olive Apr 2010
Maybe,
I could spread a thousand constellations on the ceiling of your palms
--dig them honeysuckle deep into my ridges;
            & to be blind to the oncoming melodies, when the blue and black bees come singing
            i will sweep the petals under my eyes and blink them,
             shuttered shut.
& we will still remain, intertwined:
fingerstems of you in my skin
will those cluster bees follow me
bleed their ink into my serenity
Apr 2010 · 834
Your Rotting Garden
briana olive Apr 2010
separate the petals from the cobwebs on the floor,
and grow roses from the life that remains;
but if their lullabyes have faded,
leave them be
to eat the sunshine
crawling through the cracks in your window-
***** with handprints of laughing children
“they don’t come around anymore”-
maybe,
the petals could grow stems of longing,
growing orchids
in your field of ashes.
rough draft

— The End —