I am curating a rebellion of red-jasmines

in my blood-


stream, seraphim hatching

            like newborns

in my intestines.


Rugged as a shovel that has seen

many lowered into the brown-humus


heat of June, I don’t expect you to understand —


My heart is the whitest part of this

room, whiter even, than a toddler’s first


lie. All of its scarlet        —         gone.

This is how I nourish the world, abut


holiness in the unlikeliest ways.

I hope to be quickened


by kindness, to be understood

at least by the trees.


Moonlight spilling into me

makes a scene — under skin,

light splitting into more light,


the virus multiplying, aglow like stars,

tadpole-swift. It isn’t beautiful.


It isn’t merciful.

What are you looking for?