/ Poetry /
What bloomed from grief
came instinct,
came wrath.
The aftermath of my longing
will show on your back like Lichtenberg figures
after the subtlety
of a strike.
My beautiful friend,
I do think heat causes molecules
to excite,
and if you let me,
we’ll honor the burn marks after this smudging.
But not before prayer, not before
kneeling behind you
your scent, curiously ancient I am
suddenly wet
I want you protected, well fed. So please, let me
sage you. The air around you.
The air around persimmons you’ve hung out
to dry, leaving you / not bruised
but sugar-bloomed into a world you want to
breathe in.
And you’re gonna wanna know what becomes of it, the tsuris of us.
Probably nothing, it’s nothing, right? I keep
finding you in kitchens. And I,
tending to a grow bag full of fairytale eggplants,
their blooms bowing down as if in
shame
or in love
or as if grieving was a thing of
shame or love or is it
your scent, curiously ancient, that is
the intimate why of my grieving.