The Dogwood Tree

staring through the white plate, completely through the kitchen counter and laminate floor;

i saw the way the tendons in her neck cinched rigid.


a string of rubies pulled too taut: bursting, then an echoing scatter across the cold tile;

maroon, maroon, spilling into the ochre-pallor bathroom
she spills out of control / squeezing her fists so tight, she can feel too clearly when it wrestles out of her fingers / she wants to be (seamless vessel) but she can’t just can’t, she just…

she just spills.
steadying herself in the corner, against the far wall.


smudges of dirt on her Michelangelo cheeks.

a pearl peering out from the cracks of a gritty, crusted oyster.


the Dogwood Tree: branches like tendons reaching to the spring sun,
thinly veiled with their delicate blossoms:

teardrop white opal petals, suspended
in shadow & light;

she dances.

she dances, intricately
suspended in shadow & light.

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