In the hush beneath powerlines,
through fractured stones,
no gardener knelt to bless them.
No springtime choir sang.
Still, golden heads rose,
leaning towards the shadowed light,
the kind filtered by clouds
like a half-remembered memory,
or a lullaby hummed to a ghost.
Roots thread through ruin,
tasting rust,
sipping rain
that fell before the world began.
They were never meant to be here.
And yet
yellow ablaze in the rubble.
A flicker. A flare.
The petaled armor of hope
unfurled against battle-smoked skies
as if the world exhaled
and breathed them into being.

every time i open my mouth to speak
my tongue tangles up in the branches and bitter blooms.
long limbs knotted up in christ and the
front yard of my childhood carry
green suns instead of rib cages.
i have called you a ruin!
i have called you the home i was torn from!
now that i can only speak in flowers,
can you hear me?

the orchid bears my naïveté
the rose my wounds,
the dying nettle my tenderness.
what if i am small forever? will salvation reach for me?
he sits there, on the willow with the broken branches.
and my mother, she asked him this one sunless sunday:
how can i help her find the light?
but i have already done it all. i have
torn out all my past lives from under rotting floorboards
and i have cut off all my fingers
(i cut off all my fingers just to touch you!)
no, mother. the question is
how can i help the light find her?

salvation spits on my grave.

She was full of such grace
That she radiated utter splendor!
Lilacs in her hair,
Violets, paeonias, and roses.
Adorn simple fabric,
The smells citrus & floral.
I loose my sextant,
My rubric,
My laurels.
In her fair sight, near eye,
Her ear offers to listen
On the thoughts that pass by.
What more could I ask for?

Lust is the pink pillow on my bed.
Plump, filled with unwashed thoughts.
At least they’re encased in dusky pink;
pleasant to the eye especially in the
golden minutes absorbed by sheer glass.

I want your head pressing
into the pillow, hard. Then your sleepy
breath will baptise the cotton after
sinful acts. I’ll preserve the dent you make
with the lovely weight of your skull.

I’ll surround the chasm with carnations.
Eventually, they’ll be a line outside my room.
Jealous tourists wanting to take pictures.

I sent you a bouquet of words,
But you wanted flowers.

I promise they will outgrow any bud,
Into the tallest of towers.

I whisper in the wind
Searching for the sun to win
I’m a pretty sunflower
Won’t you pick me for your whims