Forget the blackened clatter,
distilled, diluted,
the water in the blue glass,

Here, it's all about periphery.

Take the white wall in darkness,
the listing eyelet curtain,
the woman outside in the garden,
up to her wrists in soil.
How the sweat gathers
at her hairline.

Inside, you are getting off,
violent, volatile,
that desperate tenor
of blood, of breath,
knees tangling the cool sheets.

Somewhere, there's a word
for this, a small catch
to be unfastened
Kristy Bowen
'In the garden of ' by Jenny Sadre-Orafai
Jenna Brannon