Over a shoulder,
mirror meets my gaze.

On skin pale as milk,
five pink petals blossom.

Some places,
we never choose to go.

The nature
of transaction, so fraught.

Some curiosities
find no harbor here,

but I do not grudge
these red rooms.

A more subtle exchange
of coin, this.

Some standards are impossible,
and after —

flowers fade
from the rear-view mirror,

wondering if they weren’t
meant for another garden.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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