A cigarette is just dragon spit, dragon spit
To tilt the world

Skull writing with ***** hands

Smear of words blind, dizzy
Onto walls of fireless caves

Out of the orange pulp of distant gerberas
Hopeful, and alone

Flick of sparks in air: dissolve
Downward around and everywhere

Like my thought

I wonder, if before me now were nothing
Would I jump?

There’d be no pain nor fear of end
There’d be nothing

I must transcribe this caved orange flower
Blindness somehow

you gave me peonies
freshly picked from the curb at the bus stop
the very first time we talked and you asked if we could be friends
and i was smiling the whole time, said "sure"

we met up in the middle of the night when i couldn't sleep,
we texted each other two hours prior
you gave me daisies from the beds planted on somebody's front lawn (which i later found out was your home);

now i admit they're my favorite from all the flower you've ever given me
even though i always teased you when you did (but of course they're all deeply appreciated)

when you confessed the feelings you've manifested for me,
and asked if i see 'us' going anywhere
i smiled and whispered in your ear "we can go anywhere we want to"

and since then you sent me more,
days with no occasion turned significant
dahlias, morning glories, jasmines, hyacinths (sometimes id surprise you as well)
lilies, chrysanthemums, tulips;

i kept them all and i reminisce all the jokes we made
about starting a business from our garden

we were lying upon rows and rows of daffodil in the middle of a starry night
hands intertwined,hearts inclined
amidst the thorns and the wilted flowers you said,
i made flowers bloom in your lungs and you picked and gave them to me; you said you wanted to spread the effervescence tickling your senses from the field in your mind everytime you thought of me (let the petals be the symbol of our love, you said)

you were my flowerboy

and now,
my soil coated nail beds bury these seedlings surrounding your grave
i threw all the flowers you gave me
dandelions, gerberas, roses, marigolds,gardenias ,baby's breaths,magnolias;
now they sleep in the ground in your eternal slumber

love im sorry
that all the flowers i planted in your lungs wilted,
the cause of your annihilation
sorry i couldn't keep them alive
sorry i couldn't keep you alive

but i know,
you'll watch over our sunflowers
and one day,
we'll be reunited and we'll be frolicking in a field of yellow

Put your head on me
Lay it on my shoulder.
Murmur kindly at me
Accept my gerberas
Be the world to me.
Let me know that you're breathing, at least.

She sells flowers in little bunches,
Sweet fragrances that please,
Delicate sepals of life,
That softly speak.

Bouquets of living colours,
Petals of inspiration,
Roses, chrysanthemums,
Daisies, carnations.
Accent blossoms, gerberas,
Lilies smiling in myriad hues,
Sunflowers a darling yellow,
Vibrant orchids in splendour blue.

With her touch, beauty breathes,
Glorious blossoms thrive,
Delicately arranged,
Floral expressions come alive.

For new love that slowly blooms,
For confessions yet to be said,
The finest of her finest,
She ribbons roses dark rich red.

Fond good health thoughts,
Through florals expressed,
She’ll wrap with gentle care,
With love’s tenderness impress.

She’ll weave wreathes and garlands,
Blends of wistful white, blues, pinks,
For memories left behind,
Now distant imprints.

In sweet scents, she colours days, months, years,
Walks alone each night when she is done,
Back home, no florid fragrance fills her senses,
To colour her world there is no one.

Bury  them with their Motanka,
doll tight in their hands.

Dress them in that  yellow
fleece wanted and put back on the shelf,

two wreaths of  roses and gerberas
adjacent their crypt,

filled with their birth smells,
the sandalwood,  jasmine of the crib,

a towel and a bowl of water
near to wipe their tears.

Flood the nave lightly  dark
so they may chase the path of birds.

Recite the names they gave
the fowl, flowers, everything.

Only you must remain ignorant
of the sun and the dark.

Only you would pray to re-turn
amniotic time to have them again,

nine months to split the seeding moment,
to be be flesh renewed, a new word within you.

Only you will thirst to
return drop by by red drop

the blood spilled from them
to the wanting womb.

Only you will drag their sled
from church to cemetery.

You will feast with others
on the third, ninth, the fortieth

day of their passing, feast again
on the sixth month and the annum,

for each one day past Easter
for another forty Provodies.




Notes on the Ukrainian funeral rites and rituals mentioned in the poem:

On the days of Ukrainian funerals, a bowl of drinking water and a towel are left for the dead as a spiritual offering. This is done because it is believed that the soul of the deceased drinks the water and uses the towel in order to wash away the tears along the way.

Moreover, Ukrainians abstain from drinking water in the presence of the body of the deceased.

Another Ukrainian traditions is to use a sled to move the body of the deceased from the funeral service to the burial site.

They have a feasting ritual in which members of the community join to feast on the third, ninth and fortieth days after a death has occurred. These feasts are also repeated on the six month and one year anniversaries of the death of a person. Ukrainians also commemorate the lives of their ancestors on the days following Easter. It is believe that this puts the spirits of their ancestors at ease so they can continue to rest in peace. This Ukrainian remembrance festivity is referred to as “Provody”.

The mainly faceless Motanka dolls can be found in every region of the Ukraine.  They are a symbol of women’s wisdom and family bounds.  In Orthodox Catholic regions of the Ukraine the face of a Motanka is made of a cross— a symbol of not only their faith but also sun and light, not only a good luck charm but also a symbol of well-being.