roses

I have tasted so many flowers by now. Touched petal after petal to the pink of my tongue and sung the perfume through my throat. And spring is coming back today and the garden is coming back and I am following my feet through the soil, counting on my hands the things I have learned. I have learned that almost every plant has thorns. They twist circles over my ankles and ask questions in my skin as I walk. They ask too much of me, always. My own vines have woven into thickets around my wrists as I have gotten older. After so many cuts. And I have also learned that plants grow from blood. Fruits, flowers, green leaves. All from the blood that falls from my mouth when I taste the petals and their thorns prick my tongue. All from the blood that falls from my ankles as I walk. It feeds the soil. They tell us in school that we have the rain and the sun to thank – and those do help – but I have learned that blood climbs into plant stems like magic spells, that life comes from life. From pain. So I stay barefoot. And I plant roses again this year.

195.

I tried to swallow too many rainbows last night,

woke up coughing stripes into puddles

pushed myself pill-down and closed my sunrise jaw

and I am too slick and humpbacked for this beach already

I have thrashed my tail into too many folding chairs.

someone throw me back into the sea.

194.

plant my hands in hard soil for you
break my elbows to speak
so you don't have to see the teeth in my cuticles
the bones I choked for you

then uproot them again when you ask
where my fingers went

pull up the green shoots that were
just sprouting there, but no
pull them up
roots and all to reassure you
nothing is wrong here

193.

I have been blaming each of you -

mother

father

brother

every new lover in new litanies -

for my empty palms

for years

and I have been standing next to piles of

flower bouquets, buckets of water

carrying nothing.

asking for empty palms

this whole time

192

this is what I will spend my time on:

drawing conclusions about you

writing them into your laugh lines with my thumb and forefinger

cleaning my teeth in the reflection of my dinner spoon

carrying the weight of this whole thing under my shoulder blades,

calling it wings,

then preening my kitchen knife feathers

telling you stories, about the last of the honeybees,

the owls that bite, and keeping one eye on your mouth

leaving my headphones on,

leaving the curtains twisted around my ankles,

leaving yesterday stuck between my teeth and I can see it

when I check my reflection in my dinner spoon

wondering if you can taste it, too

throwing out the coffee

planting jasmine in your backyard without telling you

burning rose petals at night

combing the ashes through your hair

letting them wash us both in gray and blush

drawing conclusions about myself

drawing circles of you in my laugh lines

rubbing sugar into the bed sheets, letting it scrape

letting my my hands shake until they stop

letting the time spend

until it stops

day one

I find myself planting wasps in my palms again
watching the stingers stir under my skin

holding, holding
soon they will burrow out and find you

and I cannot decide how I feel about that

so that means this is Day One of

waking up fistfuls of hair and teethfuls of

why didn’t you say goodnight?

Day One of

these car heat hands on my bare neck

are they tender, are they gripping

whose fingers now are

holding, holding

Day One of

blank page-full, one week-empty

if we unwrite our last kiss will we

speak backwards, move nonsense mouths into

our best kiss instead

Day One of

seeing you all black and white in my lap again

clean you up, calm me down

five minutes is all it takes

Day One of

mirrors at my feet, glass-soled, blind
all that’s dripping from my mouth now is

don’t worry this isn’t the beginning of anything bad

Day One of
don’t worry things will turn out okay

this is still just the beginning

growth

take the salt, rub it on your palms

spread white circles at your door, under your window

pull lavender oil through your hair

say words over the rosemary

when you go to the creek, take the letters

do not burn them. float them.

cover your scars with brown moss

do not wash out the lavender

even under under the full moon, even at midnight

light white candles

always remember your own name

always eat when you are hungry

when they ask what you did with the letters

crush three tablespoons of mint in your hands

promise yourself you will not lock your jaw anymore

close the door, replace the salt

this is how you wake up the dawn

this is how you plant the seeds of your feet

this is how you come back