Agapanthus

                    i. Blue

Turn on the faucet, and all
I hear is televisionary static. A
blind moth mourning oblivious light crushes
glass to jewels as its delicacy
fuels futile flight. Pink to red
in the blink of a blackened
eye! Deeper wounds than the ones
that bruise. Love which flowers through
a kiss only a sore body
knows. Truth without compromise comprises a
night unspoken as its terrors dissolve
to white gauze, filtered eye through
which breathes new insight. Powerful as

poverty, thrown open charity, when asked
for, clothes. A wealth of colour
to surface in mercy exposed. Not
yet healing, quite content to go.
The screen allows no illusion, shows
only how this version implodes his
intrusion. Blows out what purple abuse
threw Jonah from its gut, through
that Leviathan’s mouth, onto a white
desert blue from ink bled. Pages
to ashes wept. Sand to shattered
lapis lazuli metamorphosed, from splinters of
memories repressed ground to filaments regret

                    ii. Purple

flickers with tears only a prophet
can be led to interpret as
having any benefit, for it is
prophecy, yet, to have lived less
than what was kept. How, then,
does he treasure this, lets a
mess direct his art’s progress, makes
of disaster, every time, a process
by which loss is redefined but
never refined? How can I accomplish
what eldritch alchemy my mind aches
for me to use against confusing
acts my exes inflict, when any

thought of them transmutes to renewed
trauma, again, what axe of my
flesh is wielded by them, temptation
which, promising no commitment, all my
prolific sex with anonymous men threatens
to inhabit this cracked shell of
my existence? Am I to emerge
undine, undulate serpentine, and sylph, salameandering
from out of its grip by
gnoming toward surface over which my
longed-for gnosis tramples, indifferent? Fire, then,
must by flames of unsolicited gift,
ravish with savage unforgiveness this garden

                    iii. White

of wilting and withered blooms my
anguish advantages my weakness with, for
by consuming every petal, these lotuses
and foxgloves and lilies and orchids
I eat devour parts of me
my psyche forces me to visit
whenever I attempt to sleep. We
must burn, then, the menagerie these
beasts keep. Stealing, as they have
been, dignity exchanged for detriment. And
how my silences their glances permeate
as my tacit agreement permits them.
This lawn of scorched crop my

feet circumambulate in pilgrimage as my
anger sours to hate and my
hands curl to fists, coiled again
as I have been once, as
a snake, preparing to strike in
revenge those whose pride it has
been to drink in my abandon.
Uncanny, then, this thirst we quench
addressing the strange business of translating
relics. Paraphrasing the hazy intent of
ancient damage we had strangers afflict.
As if plaguing with pleasure’s malice
this unhealthy urge lurking beneath surface.