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The Garden

By
Watery pearls with a serrated edge
Roll across the
cracks of my skin
Cracked and dry
like the desert floor
Thirsty and pleading in a high-pitched din

As much as the surface cackles with heat,
And as much as the raindrops
Sizzle and steam,
Slicing through
the thick compact layer,
My skin loses its febrile beam

Like good old-fashioned cheese graters
These drops scrape away
Sour-faced cells
Under, a fecund dermis
Awaits the patter
Of the liquid unguent, the celestial spray

My skin is alive, renovated
Like an original
da Vinci
Slick like a newborn,
Soft as down
Glowing with the sheen of raspberry

No longer arid, my skin has growth
And I feel a lush
garden spring out
Dotted over in
blossoming leaves,
The cool air sifts through my mouth

Down with my sickness, I raise up my head
Smeared across
the limpid horizon
Is the juice of my life
wet and arched,
The dimpled, swerving line of a grin





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