The death of cellophane air fuchsia flowers by the Pigalle, ocean pale, in this dream; Camellia’s perfume, her tree bones close to death are twigs in the mistral wind, the quiet my mother taught me as I learned or tried to learn half the Hebrew alphabet for her. I tell you, I was a child then, mon chèriette a baby in her bones, with a quart of the Conassauga river in her hands; blackbirds now fall by the sandalwood sunsets, and I die in the chords at four AM; the honeysuckle ripened from my window and I look towards my son— my black cat he sleeps as the lotus petals fall; there is no death in the buried tree, as demitasse ghosts lie following mental nuclear winters barefoot in the tongued darkness, how it leaves me, it leaves me; desert mouths, sun blush; dark and veering the birches, like an exquisite battered perfume, blood rubies part their lips; some prophet can carry me to the apple limbs and soon abandon me to shore. But there is no prophet I grasp, no, not for me. Through the smokestacks there is the death of me as I pass the hills. I see the little girl in the glass; her pale epidermis. Undress me, and the wounds, steal her womb too into the autumn death, lest these hills assombrir and bruise; fingers of rock, weeping blood and grapes, wines to the illumine baby’s breath before we all die, leave me, that’s all I ask of you, please leave me. 09/20/2020 © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
Heavily, HEAVILY inspired by Sibylle Baier’s I Lost Something in the Hills.