i. Kitchen, ii. Garden, iii Bedroom

ii. Garden

I am piecing you together, you will not stay.
A spider lily slits its gut, frees style and twisted anther.
Leaves we gather in our hands; they curl and fall away.

We go through motions, through all of them halfway.
Another lily splits its bud, parting sepals in surrender.
I am piecing you together, you will not stay.

I thought our silence might yet heal us where we lay.
One more lily cleaves apart, leaking fragrance from the fracture.
Gathered leaves wither; from our hands they fall away.

Spider lilies riot, stigmata stamen-stained give way.
I say your name, the sound you hear but do not answer.
I am piecing you together, you will not stay.

Spider lilies blast the air, linalool, orange decay.
I breathe pollen and I whisper, you are my last safe harbor.
The leaves we gather die; they all die the same way.

You cupped a firefly in your palms, once, a heady New Year’s Day.
Our house now burns, you walk inside, I stand and follow after.
I am piecing you together, you will not stay.
The spider lilies droop. From our hands, the leaves, they fall away.

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