Literature
If You Want to Sing Out...
I don't always dream of ephemeral things
like drops of dew on fur,
or the snark that lives in each breath,
sunflowers,
or ethics.
Some things linger.
The taste of sweet flesh.
The orchids that grow from her hair,
their scattered open flowers, dried in the only warm room in the house
I hung myself today,
my mother ordered me down,
towed my hearse.
She wants me to find love.
I told her I was getting married.
The crinkle orchid flowers are all that's left.
I put them in a glass jar
like the butterflies,
so they linger.