Moon's Iris

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Her body is a flower garden.

Her irises grow purple like a sweet summer
blueberry bush, tiger stripes  
line her cornea.

I pull weeds
from between her wilted feet,
hours cultivate and mold her roots,
breezes against her jade skin, sprouts
clench caramelized soil below her waist,
she chokes.
She can’t be sustained
on time and nurture.

She needs the sun to sing,
thaw during the day,
susceptible to warm palms,
kisses on her pollen powdered forehead.
At night, laid to rest in a soft orange bed
inhaling affection through her toes.

Darkness haunts her,
frost encroaches lamented veins,
twisting bruised petals,
dehydrated knuckles crack,
scars on her neck like carvings in a tree.

Pale like flowers in her eyes,
The moon hums lullabies
to awaken the earth.
Her arms, green leaves,
envelope her spine and stemming
from her dreams comes thermal rain,
cradling her atmosphere as she rests.






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