Saturday, January 30, 2010

St. Hyacintha Mariscotti

If you want Hyacinth to bloom for the

second time, you must cut her. She loves

like a carnivore. Make her feel what it is

like to be chosen second. When she cries,

her tears flow down cheekbones that curve

like a shell, like a mistake in the highway.

She picks up the phone, and a voice, deep

as a ravine on the other end whispers,

“Be dead and rise from death.” After these

calls, her sleep turns to ash. She rubs it over

her lips, breastbone, those smooth white

thighs she thought were so desirable. In the

morning, she will bloom. Scarlet, sapphire,

salmon. There will always be another cut.

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