Under the jade vine I found Magritte: A poem

Hannah Cooper/Senior Staff

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when we begin the arms of the sun sink

in the commercial space curated into me

lightly burning your hands

as we build together on plastic chairs

the kind only i can witness

lend you an addition

a subtraction

 

but your letters are months in the making

they fall over in a rare, sober blossom

 

we walk to where i can take it

in a space that lets me sink

further into myself

into the subliminal roots that anchor me

on the well-watered ground

royal blue and blood red

 

the slow cinematography blurs the space

around you, a pale lilac halo of my creation

tendrils of the swelling in my chest i fail

over and over and over to control

to wrap tightly in my self’s terracotta fist

 

Holy, i want to say

but i cannot stop the climax of a crush

the tearing of turquoise claws

the strongylodon macrobotrys

struck by the unwavering hand

 

i see you carefully gather words

to place on the windowsill before me

a sight that wasn’t mine

when i fell down the well

of your bright magenta laughter

and you find a light-year of ease

in tucking hair behind ears

and the pooling begins in my fingers

 

i know, i say

the static five minutes

you find them

dusty in my back pocket

among the spoiled daisies

among the tired irises

scratching at my cheekbones 

brushed away by loose silver

 

I forgot to say

the greatest star in the sky

scattered into all my pretty ones

the lamplight, or the dreams’ motif,

now the only witness

a serpentine wallflower

 

you say your speech in fine print

but the long waves of nakedness

the choked and gory fingers

the shifting eyes of seraphs 

they are gasoline on the drowned

thin pages stuck together

 

such is my wreckage

but faithful are the magnetic hands

guiding the rusted fissures

in my chest

there is no bruising

only the touch of pilled cotton clay

a slight smear of cracked cherry paint

the ultraviolet tide coming out after bated breath

 

and in the resolution

the swelling goes down

 

this is not a love poem

but it is a lavender rose

and I clutch it tightly

 

such is my masochism

ornamental horticulture

and a light-year of bleeding

 

Contact Jordan Harris at [email protected] and follow her on Twitter at @jordxnhxrris.