[yet]
Getting blood drawn, I ask, “Don’t I have good veins?” so plump and glassy blue,
Kool-Aid green, gold amethyst iris? Yes, yes they say, my hands
are full of blood
circling inside me forever. It’s nice to be awash in blood like an empty room, red in every direction. Plenty of space for nothing
circling inside me forever. It’s nice to be awash in blood like an empty room, red in every direction. Plenty of space for nothing
to happen inside me:
just circling, dying off, re-creating. Sometimes
just circling, dying off, re-creating. Sometimes
I wear my favorite sundress, dotted in flowers like a thousand mouths. My husband thinks I look
like an anthropomorphic pond full of thrush and wet leaves.
like an anthropomorphic pond full of thrush and wet leaves.
Why is it one cannot smell oneself, know one’s own scent,
though the beloved drinks them up
like forgiveness?
though the beloved drinks them up
like forgiveness?
When I run my hands over the apple tree behind my house, they smell like cider,
smoke, and rain.
An elm with her headlamp of leaves twists in circles, her face pretty as an icicle, a field
of oxalis.
of oxalis.
I make this mistake all the time: thinking if I touch, I’ll know. I won’t call this mistake desire, but
it has its way of briefly shining.
it has its way of briefly shining.
