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 October flowers make you smell of spring

a gentle thought -brings the backyard swing.

A forehead kiss trapped in a blink,

your lips are no longer pink,

turned blue in a war. 

We don't fight for love anymore.


Bloody eyes over charcoal-colored sheets-

there is more to this ancient ache that the eye meets


Reach through me- 

the armor of ribcage, my eyes, the bruises on my knee. 


Be, be, be


Joana

Written in my grandmother's garden, march 2023 
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