Anemic Daisy
MAR 20, 2025
Blood-lusting, bloodletting
tremors and stars
my hand shakes at the thought
and my vision blurs naught
Red liquor drips down my spine
head spins
alkaline. Muscles contract
as you enter me
condensed visions, all blend into the sea.
The memory
of faces, vampires.
Your memory, my daisy.
In a garden of serpents and thistle
bushes that prick the skin
where a hand reaches in
to touch the core.
Yet I stand, blood dripping
soaked in amusement
They never stop, do they?
I laugh and cry out, I know
only God can hear me.
only I stand to my testimony.
So why must they care so much
to see my bloody hands, my losses
why do they cringe at the thought
of my body becoming more
becoming what it was made for?
At least my daisy has survived
dust that clothes the naked sky
yellow pollen bearing the wounds
for I might cry
if my internal flower
should leave me here to infernal sonder
onwards, I yell.
Leave the vampyres behind.
Flowers grow and I see them
as I wander, wonder—in kind ships
who meet the breach
between sands and soils, sounds and souls.
Where each flower blossoms
new Earth and fresh dirt, growth
that finds the line between—dissolving
Transfixed on the horizon
my body quivers, the midnight stroll
a lantern filled with oil
signs of life that protest
to new seasons, vernal equinox
the rise of a pandora’s box.
Homely bodies meet the crux
of the water’s edge
as she pulls the ribbon
out from under their feet.
The line is gone
a box no more—release
the rage of a boar
but it was only protecting
its kin—skin. Still,
the flowers grow
and spring becomes whole.
The ocean drains the oil.
