Charlene Ashley Taylor

Built from bricks of red poppy The short-lived perennial Two years of invisible war Warriors carve into their skin Birthing poinsettia on thighs And with pineapple sage They anchor fear to hyacinth wrists With a hand full of spades Instead

drool in my garden like honey on the hilt smearing beneath the skin and swimming through the rock like eggs     to eat a rose bitter with diamond petals I tongue the smell of rust and watch the water moan ripping hair

the harpy trembles with a distant rhythm pulsing and scratching at the curl of my ear she sheds her skin to unravel the scales revealing muscle and bone wound with salt she breathes into the nape of my neck teeth

I watched the seamstress keep a stoic face as the needle guided tar-black lines out of her skin, stitching a heart. I imagine myself as tattoo artist, mutilating the softness of her body and making dashes around an empty space