after Jericho Brown
Let’s talk through my window, what it has to do with God.
The stars also suffer. Immense and dead, their gasses burn
distant like castanets of antebellum teeth. My open window
a synecdoche of country. No matter how much smoke a pig
roast won’t erupt into a song. How its head won’t find more
careful music than this apple in my mouth. Pardon his sex,
this apple erupts into violets. Historians archive our care
as an axe upon a ladybird. Air now through my window,
what it has to do with Edith strolling away from me. You
see, I implant now not only a grandmother but a garden in
your tasteless heart. With just that name and its slant rhyme
“Eden”, you hear “Gaia”. Have you heard a person bloom?
In that garden, Edith’s lips hymn. Skyline maintains its mar.
The poem required sound from a body. The poem required
meter heard by those trees. I gift a woman’s voice bottled
so cleanly for you. Salt it. And coo admiringly with tongue.
There were other names: Sogolon, Madhavi, ubume. Leda.
Ariel. Hierarchy in how I love? Not violets, no— implant
an ending: known for representing purity, white flowers are
a neutral tone that accents any color. Camelia. Wisteria. Lust.