Flora
When he found her in the closet
purring to tunics about sublime wine
he called a trial-and-errorist
who prescribed a flower cure
at the temple on the hilltop.
Palliative scrolls said: let lemon trees,
let orange blossoms, let tulips and let go.
Bleeding cups were added to the mix.
The slave girls in the bougainvillea garden
could not shut down her shaking.
They brewed anemones in a tureen
and dunked her breasts and ass.
They beat her with stems
and promised a new map.
She said: If I cannot slow time
I will refuse memory.
The slave girls wished to choke her.
They began walking backwards
plucking cherries from trees for insertion.
They buried her mirror in violets
but was it about that?
The temple filled with smells of rot.
The temple filled with smells of sweet.
Overhead, Venus reclined in paint.
Flurry
Snow tonight, brain
of the frightened rabbit
and heart shaped
like a donut.
Feels I’ll never know
quiet again. Walk me
to a room on high alert
and bring friends.
There is a chance
we could ripple
hushful; something
about the sum of us
works best.
