you fall into it: a nap on a warm afternoon, slowly but seemingly not at all
golden light means she is here. there are ghosts tugging
at your feet as you sleep, lifting you from the roots.
a house watches the garden from its perch in 1994. a honey bear jar filled with instant
coffee on the counter. it hasn’t been opened in years. water won’t boil any
more in a house that is only foundation.
a raspberry bush pregnant. you know that she will make your cousins sit to eat,
give flesh to anyone else but you. you are nothing special but it feels so—
a memory of your memories. a meal made to be loved.
your grandma’s favourite flower blooms, the skin drawn raw by the gravel
that scraped your knee that one evening when you were eight and running
too fast to get back for dinner. that flower blooms in every season, gold
if it could be. or the colour of the way seeds feel, caught in your teeth:
a little bit of flesh to remind you of fullness, a prick that exists to remind you of itself.
you’ve fallen all the way. the seeds were sired of a lily’s
stamen. white petals, they open,
reveal kneecap red. eyes
widen. you know.
the blood in you hasn’t changed one ounce. it won’t. that’s good.