Floralia by Kristin Garth

The damned will dream of daffodils — then scent 

of hyacinth, a marigold pill are what 

remain when they awake, a sacrament 

accepted by mistake.  Without a thought 

of what will come, they close their eyes, offer

panting tongues to either a tincture or 

a seed.  Fertilization is an honor

to concede — immaculate even more 

upon this sanctioned dirt.  The prince of thorns 

requires it must hurt.  A spectacle of 

flesh and blood where petals will be torn 

from tightest buds in the name of love 

and fealty and Roman holidays.

Each beauty pruned for this brutal bouquet.

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