In the Blueprint of Her Iris
Vikki C.
There are blessings we bury
in red dirt on difficult days
believing each could seed a cornucopia
rooted in an open wound.
Because the lilac field only existed after you,
the doves coming to feed on nothing
and the grains blowing west
to places we will never walk–
this land is both gold and grave.
I point to my impermanent bed of clover
interrupting the route a train might take
had the nouveau city been approved,
had they found ways to connect two sad futures.
For now, the earth glows as a cigarette.
An imperfect light that subdues with
something we cannot hold.
Choosing between two types of darkness–
choosing death or prolonged illness,
or how a border shifts to defer saudade.
The doves bear no hunger,
sustained by their chimera above our loss
–all else falling to where an empire begins.
Vikki C.
There are blessings we bury
in red dirt on difficult days
believing each could seed a cornucopia
rooted in an open wound.
Because the lilac field only existed after you,
the doves coming to feed on nothing
and the grains blowing west
to places we will never walk–
this land is both gold and grave.
I point to my impermanent bed of clover
interrupting the route a train might take
had the nouveau city been approved,
had they found ways to connect two sad futures.
For now, the earth glows as a cigarette.
An imperfect light that subdues with
something we cannot hold.
Choosing between two types of darkness–
choosing death or prolonged illness,
or how a border shifts to defer saudade.
The doves bear no hunger,
sustained by their chimera above our loss
–all else falling to where an empire begins.