The Trees Will Sleep

Chrystalla,

lost girl,

your pale mark

and mulberry punches

underdressed

in the memory of your old lovers,

their bodies

time-bent with the apple boughs,

Siamese skin

cut from other sky.

 

You must

remember to breathe

in the sincerity of night,

where

those casual hearts still beat

like a pomegranate morning,

and

those two rising suns still loom

deathless

behind your freckled eyes.

 

Karla M.

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