hello moonshine midnight
once again. i find your cold
skin searching for my own
flesh in this passage of spring
time. deep breaths and wait
for the rustle of new blossoms,
fresh sakura, lost on strangers
expecting roses. the moon finds
me rested on this land, into this
soil. i am extracting nutrients
and implanting them into my
body. my temple—the only one
that i still know how to pray to
—blowing out its candles.
hands clasped, knees scraped,
i press to the point of blood and
maybe god will listen more. is it
still dark? i have been here for
seasons of lingering twilight
teasing the horizon. it knows
how much sunlight it can hide
to fake its presence. truth: it
likes the evening primrose.
but it also likes the necessity
—its absolute job. so it always
comes through the stained
windows casting rainbow
patterns onto the floor. my
eyes are looking for the dark
in between because i, too, love
evening primrose though i only
harvest sakura. truth: i cannot
learn to make primrose on my own.
my trembling hands and stuttering
fingers always travel back to
the blossoms i have already
perfected. the ones everyone thinks
suit me best. they are more my style.
but i've heard of miracles in inhibitions.
—moonlight lover of illegal drugs. i
let my hand fall into the seedlings,
buried by someone else, i want to bear
their blooms. dawn, i beg to sleep easy.
i grow my primrose for closed eyes.