The History of a Garden Doesn't Grow
Anhvu Buchanan
You opened your mouth wide knowing I would put my hand in and like a bear trap you snapped it shut and stole my favorite limb. It was always the same finger tracing the same story. I was the man in the painting, walking away as you chased after me letter in hand. The weather filled with clues of how we were feeling. We lived for far too long, blindfolded in the garden. I want to sort this out with all our inkblots in a hat. To look for the closest lamp and project ourselves into another photograph on the wall. To lick gravity and see if it tastes like metal like silence. Let's find ten more sounds for spring. Let's imagine all the different ways we can say I haunt you with all my heart.