mon chèriette.

Amazing poetry shared by a talented writer.


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…

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