Habitual Garden of the Human Body

Habitual Garden of the Human Body

By Ava B

i. 

slowed, iris sipping gold leaf 

reminds me of my lover, the one who swallowed the sun.

the lavender growing rampant across the spiral of calves,

simmers on the edges of ripe ponds, delicious to drink

from. 

the birds wrap humans up in soft notes; they paint

blue and flowery with sunlight finish, 

returning my lover to the fluffed grass: beauty to beauty. 

ii. 

ballerina, stretching with fingertips pointed

to the sun: graceful. 

my lover knew skies like an angelfish knows the sea:

spherical beauty, unknown from side to side,

raptured by the apex producer, 

and feathered into gravity. 

i do not know where he is buried, nor will i look

for his haunting. 

iii. 

atmosphere cremation, 

siren songs eulogy across the gold of the harp on which

i play, swirling koi fish matching the rhythm of an

elysium lullaby. 

the wax of my candle lit trees reminds me of my

lover, turning me marble day by day. 

movement of self eludes me, instead 

pressed crushed tulips between my fingertips

in hopes of loving you once more.