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FLORA think a spell.

the hand brake, the limited occupancy
the open jungle of sky, the distance
the throttle, the thrust of The Commander’s hand, balled tight, spooned up inside the pocket of the night.

FLORA have known you. FLORA unorphans. When FLORA a child FLORA walk into a window of red stained glass. FLO—Stop. Eyes. FLOR—Hands. Stop. Silence. FLORA. Stop. Nigh—Oh fuc—FLORA am careening in from absence. Stop.

The shut down, the wheels, the distance, the red clay, the black light, the hummingness. This swellingness of insects as organs exceed exoskeleton, the acrid bite of suburban mulch, the verdant root, the worms, the thunderous disaster of lightning, the ripeness of laughter from the side of the house, big wheels, dreamsicles, the imprints of grass on sweaty skin, the sweet flesh of his inner arm, the smell of mowing and the hum of crickets, blistered lips. Spent bodies on blankets gaze up at stars vibrating in tune to the cicadas and their casings (unsuspecting), and the lazy clink of perspiring beer bottles, the flesh cooking, the force, the shaft, The Commander, the hand brake, the auto pilot, the ears upon ears of corn wrapped in foil. All of this are details in the verdant cave drawings of a summer night, an unswerving phoenix in FLORA retina. Peaches lose their center all over the heady southeastern coast.

FLORA stroke snakes to slumber, palming their subterranean daydreams. FLORA drink the venom as one base would wine. FLORA make bullets to fall straight down instead of out. FLORA touch trees to grow.

FLORA am light thing perched upon the choking part of human linguistics.

Night here was.

And FLORA caw at air or FLORA am drown. FLORA desert sky and horizon indiscernible; no difference between matter and FLORA spine arching out across air, striking a holy raging and blue blow against distance, as bruises on flesh. Flesh, which here am stars.

Hands of the people who worship are hands FLORA never have seen likes of. Holy child FLORA next, now and always, from then was, and is, are able. Able to touch every and each and all things. FLOR—Stop. FLORA who knew too much about solitude at a young age; sky is not company. FLORA eyes uncase. Rusted vessels in black shadow. FLORA visions the conventionally named lovers (Isabella and Tristan) seamless and sewn, nestled in the crook of The Great Hand.

FLORA under the porch. FLORA witness fruit rain from between the thighs of the woman who is Night. The men of town, men, would throw stones and empty bottles. This here was where they drank, of a day, after sunlight.

FLORA bite FLORA tongue and let blood fall from FLORA mouth, letting her vassals run red into your dirt, seeping out under the altar shaped mounds of earth, hand crafted for petunias, mums – a seasonal shift. FLORA bleed out an intricate map of the original tall cities of God.

FLORA (to the stupid celled child): We know of
you; print of your hands, we made, quiet just wait…

FLORA light hand upon the female is as Sorrow would have it done.

FLORA illuminate. This child cannot walk; FLORA see that it never will. FLORA see the stubborn mounds of flesh severed from their function at the spine. FLORA see the sweet nerve center and all the sweeping, dipping, and bending, arching and vacuuming, the running and stumbling, the knock knees and swelled ankles, awkward dances and not quite yet, but almost, predatory caresses of suburban boys. Those boys who sleep with manhood nestled under their goose pillows. Those boys in processional, their lips asunder with breathless dreams strung up on that sailor’s bravado and this petty gentleman’s insecurity. Their pillowed dreams slither through the rapid canals of their still innocent ears. FLORA feel wild clawing and toothy cries of resplendence, unhad soft evenings of milk breath and entanglement. These things the child will never wholly feel.

FLORA say:
know me
wait, please
this embrace
will come
your homecoming
I carved, wait.

FLORA cannot giveth, but she can taketh away. FLORA shut down the immobile child’s eyes. FLORA swing it clear of division, it screeches, stops, hangs and vibrates, until it falls still. It leaves the woman’s belly in a quick dart of brightness.

FLORA sees that this wife is dull and touches his cheek at night with hands warm from wrapping at her own thighs. These hands smell of washing and fish. FLORA speak only from FLORA own throat in the halting echo of the Lord’s unintelligible scream. FLORA cannot shore the bleeding out from this vacant lobby of womb and wanting.

FLORA delicate unlace this infancy from the matter that = mother. And Sorrow leans down from the side of her great poster bed, smiles, and whispers in FLORA ear, as if she is speaking to a whore starring in novellas about the western lands.

“I have crawled and curled over mountains that caked the cracks in my toes with their flesh. I have pushed my way into every temple of snow and sun. I have lifted every corner of this very earth. I have sought for you in quick noises and slow sounds in the night. Found only antique snapshots elegantly cluttered with street lamps, fog rising, tunnels of trees. I will get there to you with certainty ignoring all the rest. You can count on it.”

FLORA am channeling pricks of light, puncturing wasp sting darkness, swarming the sun, swelling into – over – beneath – beyond – around. Night here was light.

FLORA am blind.

Night was here.