The deep wine of it risen tall above the buried corm, its ornamental spathe furrowed thought- fully, to human warmth. O un-branched inflouresence, amorpho- phalos, misshapen swelling, with its allure of rotting flesh for the scarabs to follow, hollow, to the sun-lit trove, as though all dark were light unbidden by our parsing eye, and love itself hidden inside the word. Call it life enrapt with death’s blight, blooming briefly. ~ Emergent morning in the sweet gum triggering green, green its wings fanning translucent below the porch light—angelic, a palm of light opening. Hallowed, hatched each instar inches undercover, a spent thing climbing larval, alluvial, out of every cycle’s shelf- life, its rife unknowing, to become this end— brief birth flying, flown, thrown at midnight into beginning. Mouth-less, it appears something bidden out of the dark, out of the broadleaf, unmoving, to say something wordlessly—the word we too can neither speak nor sing.
Vanessa Angélica Villarreal
Yesterday, the final petal curled its soft lure into bone. The flowerhead shed clean, I gathered up your spine and built you on a dark day. You are still missing some parts. Each morning, I curl red psalms into the shells in your chest. I have buried each slow light: cardinal’s yolk, live seawater, my trenza, a piece of my son’s umbilical cord, and still you don’t return. A failure fragrant as magic. Ascend the spirit into the design. My particular chiron: the record that your perfect feet ever graced this earth. Homing signal adrift among stars, our tender impossible longing. What have I made of your sacrifice. This bone: it is myself.