bouquet

[…] the mint bush,
crushed under my head
while i was trying to listen
to water invading the cherry tree’s roots,
screamed its lacerated presence to me,
ordaining my nostrils as grave for its dying breath.
my hand
having released just moments earlier
the memory of a white river stone
with fragile blue veins within its texture,
came to rest on that green catafalque,
communing sadistically
on the bleeding of perfume rising like a ghost
from the sacrifice of some bruised leaves.
i smiled
and closed my eyes –
from my lips flew a sigh of sorrow
for my inability of not rejoicing
over the odorous pleasure shrouding me.
and i just lay there,
trading my thoughts for silence,
while the dying mint came to take
its rightful place in my puzzle of souvenirs […]

 

 

 

© Liliana Negoi

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