the roots of a mountain
       

i run hard by this deep snow i know
it is springtime—

sewn into my thigh you must
now be my subject.
would that i could sing
a hymn that is worthy—

your mortal body
couldn't bear such heavenly excitement
you burst into flames.

my lion's chrysanthemum head
my anxiety that fragile i hallucinate you best—
drink this drink this.

i do not want
to die dumb.

we grew our own grief.
this body is not
those azaleas that moon flower
those fleas.

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Copyright © 2016 Leia Penina Wilson All rights reserved
from Bone Bouquet
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission