VII: The Chariot

i will buy the flowers myself myself

myself.

the cool mist of perfume

is the only intimacy my throat knows,

now —

and maybe it’s better this way,

just me and the vaporous placebo.

i do not want to smell like easy roses.

clothe me in iris, please,

in o’keefe’s lavender wings

lurid scarred with gold.

crown me with sappho’s violets,

and watch me bloom.

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Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts