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Poetry

I love them for their lightness for
defying my forgetful winters for
lilac carpets along the driveway each April.

I love them for all the old reasons:
beauty erupting from dormancy
the summoned slide into attunement
whisper scents of sweetness.

I love the late-bloomers—
the last cherry-blossomed tree on the block
tulips slow to open
the last eruption of a wild resurrection.

I love the way they’re sort of torture,
beauty you can’t consume without killing it.
I love the way they teach me to love
the things I can’t get close enough to.

I love the dried-out gypsophila, their
crunchy cotton tips. I love the slimy
vase-bottom leaves, rose petals relaxed
open and drooling, pads of spores
matted around weeks-old stems.

I love magnolias melted into sidewalk pebbles,
drooping daffodils, festering lilies
inside mildewed urns, the fermented
tang as it all rushes down the drain.

 

 


Lacey Jones thinks and writes about breakdown, secular aesthetics, and the meta. She is a PhD candidate in English and religious studies and an assistant editor at the Yale Review.

 

 

 

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