Garden
To be pretty for you I have dropped
two seeds of turnsole in the dark
of both eyes. I grafted
apple to the quickest
vein in either wrist. I dug a ounce
of poppyseeds where
teeth should be, plugged
my ears with golden balls
of iris. I carved a hole in
either breast to swaddle
dahlias overwinter, like you, so
frightened of the cold.
My mouth grows hot with
purring, with the tunneling of
bees. My tongue, become a catacomb
the wings will fill
with scent.
My skull, for you,
ceramic bowl of flowers you may
hurl against the wall.
I am ready. Lead the way.
Copyright Credit: Isabel Duarte-Gray, "Garden" from Even Shorn. Copyright © 2021 by Isabel Duarte-Gray. Reprinted by permission of Sarabande Books, Inc..
Source: Even Shorn (Sarabande Books, Inc., 2021)