from my momma I inherited the pervasive

feeling that something has been grafted

into my history, something like you

only it goes missing now & then past

midnight when the hallway swallows her & father

from their room

like my momma I am trying to heal

my dried & split ends & the

crevices of myself that still bleed resin

but like momma I cannot stave

off rot for very long.

 

maybe you forgot but the lilies do keep  

on blooming in our room even when you’re away  

at night the thought of their abandoned  

roots is not what keeps

you awake

not that, though the rest of us can  

hear their fevered pleas

even so this would not be the

first vase to shatter.

 

is this only what it takes to make you poetry?

the languid sunday mornings & your

ribcage against mine breath like a ring of steel pressed to my neck

& a halo of white hair against the dark sheets

when I turn to meet your eyes

& your floral perfume fills my

head with clear sky

all I want is to be your favorite  

in a forever kind of way.

 

something about heritage, something about loneliness,

something about the leaf-bud youth of a child;

sap on red clothing could be ketchup,

could be blood.

 

the storm breaks over the flowerbed

drowning miniscule microsystems

& what was left of the subterranean funeral

at least the moon will remain above my window

when you & the rest of the ghosts

blossom out of the door

still, while my flower husks are watching

roll me over & press me to your lips  

like your last blunt

& we can both pretend this will last  

longer than my momma’s garden outside.

 

suicide at sixteen  

started to sound plausible  

because when you are delicate  

you are untouchable, by which I mean

my xylem shriveled from disuse long ago

by which I mean  

softness has bullets. I am no killer.

the trigger pulses, a petal falls.

hybrid fruit decays into my roots.

I am no killer.