My garden is full of weeping,
my skies are starless.
Nightly, girls trench my flowerbeds
“Is that my lung? Is that your heart?”
Come dawn I wash their blood off
the cobalt stepping stones overrun
with weeds while fleet-footed foxes
pick their bones clean.
Through the open window She sings, satisfied.
Two new sprouts have come out of the ground today
baring used teeth riddled
In the kitchen a being with too many eyes
too many faces—teeth
She sings “beloved belated
the ‘our ends
draped o’er weary women
baring bristled broches.”
I come inside and kiss
her bruised bloody mouths,
until the songbirds crawl out of the cellar
ready to hunt anew.
Yesterday She and I went berry picking.
I swallowed sticky berries that
fizzed as they crumbled
under my sharp teeth
and She sang about the end again;
the six black wren wings growing
out of her battered thorn-encircled head
twitching in glee.
The world is full of so much color
and half of it lives within her ten
too many fingers.
Tonight, more girls will come
tilling for the tactile taste
of their bodies,
and beloved-of-mine will have Her fill
and I will lay in bed,
pretending to sleep while lights whirl overhead,
in violent streaks of coppery-green.
Invisible trumpets will raise the dead
and leave them battered, begging on my chalky
All the while the little girls will whisper, witless
blind witnesses “is that my lung? Is that your liver?”
And my beloved—my beloved will tred
flesh from bone, precariously burying
their tiny teeth for tasteful tea leaves.
“What’s it like
to live in your body?”
It’s night. I stand in the kitchen
The girls are screaming and the day
seems so far away.
Where has the time gone?
Why has it always gone?
My shadow is in the doorway, carefully
out of the casted copper-green glow
I bathe in,
Distant drumbeats push a creek’s dark flow
to the backdoor, lapping
licking the melting walls clean.
I sound so much like a boy.
I could of sworn I was–
but maybe he–me–is a reminiscent
of the boys fertilizing my fields,
who’s jaws and throat apples I found
and added to my form.
“Like an invisible museum,”
I whisper “you could fill rooms
with all my stories–my bodies.
You could hang me upside down and
unroll my details
drop by drop.
Nail by nail.
each flaked flesh a world.
I birth recreation,
team with it.
And She drags in the mixing parts
strip by fleshy strip
to decompose decompress
deatomaize under my palms.”
Alba Sarria is a poet and flash fictionist fascinated by all things eerie and disquieting entangled with folklore. Alba is the 2018 CSPA Gold Circle winner for free form poetry, the 2021 short fiction CM, a 2022 Pushcart nominee, and the 2021 William Heath Award recipient.
To contact Alba, fog your bathroom mirror at 4:13am and write their name backwards in your (or someone else’s) blood. All inquiries and gossip will be replied to through cryptic temperature changes, hall light flickering, and sudden toilet flushing. Or, you can give a follow on twitter: @albasarwrites
photo by Karolina Grabowska (via pexels)