A journal of narrative writing.
Untitled (1)

It's the gloves, these long stems
don't see my wrists -a sudden slash
lets out the air
and the warm afternoon
withers –these flowers

slump but they still trust the breeze
again and again their roots
rescued and the breathing
never stops :another flower
already humming underfoot
filled with gusts. You will be back.

It's in the air.
Why else did these blooms
light up the sky?

I know it should be evening
but there are these shadows
wandering among the stalks
leading me by the hand

and this small corsage
swinging as every bell is taught
to leap -my gloves torn off
the raw skin :all this light

and still these stems never see the blade.
You will come by plane
surprise these flowers.