from a shattered bottle, roses
Sarah Korn

i was once kept with my lover
in a wine bottle filled
with creek water. our turbans--
his yellow, mine a deep
burgundy—were once lush,
our leaves succulent
and plump upon our selection
from the garden, ripped
from the bush where we
tangled in the wet soil
deliriously.

we were then dried,
hung upside down from
a kitchen doorframe
with the buxom yellow
onions in their long stocking
sacks and the cilantro
who laughed as our turbans
became like gossamer, like skin
on the back of a human
hand. light filtered
through the window
and if you had looked
carefully
you would have seen the pores
and the treelike veins behind
our browning lips.

our leaves were stripped
from our bodies by a pair
of warm hands slick
with olive oil,
shucked and thrown
in the garbage
crumbling
with the apple cores

and placed naked
with a sprig of baby’s breath
in an empty wine bottle
on the counter, like a wake
in the middle of a forest
of flour and cinnamon
imperiled by flying elbows.