The Orchard of My Bones
How the night blossoms in me
I woke, soft as moths
beneath the gable’s teeth,
my pulse a drumming
under rain-soaked ribs.
The mirror bites my throat,
its silver-fanged tongue
naming what I refuse
to claim. My reflection,
a blur of someone
tied to yesterday’s breath.
I wore the orchard once —
the earth plaited my hair,
and I sang where roots
were louder than wind.
Each stone was a word,
each leaf a green hymn.
Now the stars bruise
like wintered fruit. I pluck
their skins from my sky,
one by one, my hands
stung with their frost.
I have not forgotten
the flesh of the world,
how it fits like grief,
how it turns its mouth
against my shoulder,
half-kiss, half-bite.
Let me name myself again:
girl of the ash-breath moon,
keeper of lacerated clouds.
I have made a bed
of storm light and flame.
And still, beneath it all,
the orchard hums.
I am a thing growing —
split, sweet, and bitter.