Madison Xu
I
thornbush
I
Dinner phone call
I
Myrtle
All surplus flesh and perceptible
vitality, Not enough,
And too much.
It was his flowers I wanted.
I could smell it on your lapel,
That artificial world redolent with
orchids, daisies with powder yellow dust.
Or perhaps it was just his cologne?
I am sorry that
I am not smooth around the edges,
I am not
Sad
And lovely,
I cannot blossom at your touch
In incarnation,
My voice not,
A singing compulsion,
Cannot offer you promises.
But the flowers,
I will press them into the patterns of my
dress, Sanctify petals against my stomach,
Let their stems hemorrhage into my
veins, Until they blossom into that blue
garden among the whisperings
Of champagne and the stars.
Do not forget–
Not even thornbushes can grow from these ashes.
I am sorry,
That this is how it ends.
Here on this desolate path of fruit rinds
and discarded flowers,
My lips parted in culled syllable,
In this foul dust that collects–
Your name falling to its knees
In my throat,
A prayer:
Tom dear,
It’s a shame that only the living
Can see the blooms