I<\/p>\n
thornbush<\/p>\n
I<\/p>\n
Dinner phone call<\/p>\n
I<\/p>\n
Myrtle<\/p>\n
All surplus flesh and perceptible<\/p>\n
vitality, Not enough,<\/p>\n
And too much.<\/p>\n
It was his flowers I wanted. <\/em><\/p>\n I could smell it on your lapel,<\/p>\n That artificial world redolent with<\/p>\n orchids, daisies with powder yellow dust.<\/p>\n Or perhaps it was just his cologne? <\/em><\/p>\n I am sorry that<\/p>\n I am not smooth around the edges,<\/p>\n I am not<\/p>\n Sad<\/p>\n And lovely,<\/p>\n I cannot blossom at your touch<\/p>\n In incarnation, <\/em><\/p>\n My voice not,<\/p>\n A singing compulsion, <\/em><\/p>\n Cannot offer you promises.<\/p>\n But the flowers,<\/p>\n I will press them into the patterns of my<\/p>\n dress, Sanctify petals against my stomach,<\/p>\n Let their stems hemorrhage into my<\/p>\n veins, Until they blossom into that blue<\/p>\n garden among the whisperings<\/p>\n Of champagne and the stars.<\/p>\n Do not forget–<\/p>\n Not even thornbushes can grow from these ashes.<\/p>\n I am sorry,<\/p>\n That this is how it ends.<\/p>\n Here on this desolate path of fruit rinds<\/p>\n and discarded flowers,<\/p>\n My lips parted in culled syllable,<\/p>\n In this foul dust that collects– <\/em><\/p>\n Your name falling to its knees<\/p>\n In my throat,<\/p>\n A prayer:<\/p>\n Tom dear,<\/p>\n It\u2019s a shame that only the living<\/p>\n Can see the blooms<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" 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… <\/p>\n