I am curating a rebellion of red-jasmines
in my blood-
stream, seraphim hatching
in my intestines.
Rugged as a shovel that has seen
many lowered into the brown-humus
heat of June, I don’t expect you to understand —
My heart is the whitest part of this
room, whiter even, than a toddler’s first
lie. All of its scarlet — gone.
This is how I nourish the world, abut
holiness in the unlikeliest ways.
I hope to be quickened
by kindness, to be understood
at least by the trees.
Moonlight spilling into me
makes a scene — under skin,
light splitting into more light,
the virus multiplying, aglow like stars,
tadpole-swift. It isn’t beautiful.
It isn’t merciful.