a poem<3

who put bella in the wych elm?

last night i dreamt that i was a tree,

that my arms curled     up,    up,    up

to the sky  and mushrooms--chanterelles,

russula, amanitas--crept from my spotted cheeks.

sometimes i think i see the future, or else dreams

seep into life like frost under windowpanes.

there are worse ways to go than this; the air is sweet

and soft with the scent of february rain

and wildflowers in bloom. remember

wildflowers? remember celandine and orchids?

they all warned me, that boy

is a kamikaze lover, but i thought i could teach you

to sprout from the crimson mud of the trenches

like a thistle in the driest soil,    harsh and spiny

but beautiful.    and i wish i could be your gardener.

i wish i could say that i don’t blame you.

but the taffeta on my tongue

won’t let me forget what you’ve done.    you

are a kamikaze you are a thistle

and i am this beautiful corpse.

i am decay. i am the elm i am the rot

i am the bleached skull grinning at the sun

and you     swan diving spiraling burning burning

    i never wanted this