The Garden

The garden girl
Wakes one morning
To find everything
Clear

Bright
As the sun that
Breaks over the sky
And burns away the clouds.

She lies among the
Strewn blossoms and
Peels back white eyelids
Criss-crossed with blue veins.

The garden glows
Like a carnival.
Pretty china doll,
She lies still on her bed of roses.

The garden is different.
Flowers stretch and
Yawn open, reaching
Perfect petals to the golden sky.

The girl shifts, feels empty and
Desires to be coy as the cool wind
That raises goose bumps on
Warm, flushed skin.

She whispers for
The rake of roses
And the bruising, crushing sun to fall,
Not-softly, not-gently, elephant heavy.

She whispers for
The bite of the sultry wind
And the raspberries that leave
Red blisters on her too-hot skin.

She whispers for consumption
And her legs quiver
And the grass writhes
And the garden lives.