She looks for the thirst
through sky, blue written
into skin deep cut— wilting
last breath— petals slowly paling,
her pores curl & harden.
She bows at the stem
& descent becomes a holy pigeon,
a slipped stone, hoping to hear
heaven speak.
The bird unclasps its wings
& her petals begin to tremble,
then they flutter. One by one,
they fly until hemmed white
on soil crust, they dissolve into mulch.
Naked, she wrinkles as if burnt
from the inside. As if gravity
has unchained her, her silence
fills up the garden like water bells
ripe with August's swollen notes.
Her eyes close, cut curling fetal
around blood warm, dawn chorus
fragile with hungry coos.