a meditation on a drawing of the same name, hanging in the Figge Art Museum in Davenport, Iowa It’s hard to tell whether these outlines you’ve left patterned in the snow were meant to be fruits or leaves—or maybe even flowers; the thorns, most definite, tell of blossoms too delicate to hold in human hands. I would become a beetle if it meant I could trace your flowers to fruit— if it meant I’d never damage you or leave you lonely. I think of you, lonely in our yellow house freckled with ladybugs robed in daffodils. If I could be a bird flying from this city to yours, I would alight so softly that the dew of your branches would never know I’d kissed them good morning. You’re living proof a red-breasted robin can dance its whole life on eggshells; can subsist on & resist its own heart. You’re living proof I can love a shadow of a shadow of a shadow of a single moment in a rose garden. Now my palms wet with bird hearts beating like beetle wings.
Skylar Alexander is the author of Searching for Petco (Forklift Books, 2021), a graphic designer, and teacher. Her work has appeared in many places, including Cutbank, Smokelong Quarterly, and Forklift, Ohio. She writes about pop culture, chronic illness, queerness, violence, travel, and about growing up in rural Iowa. See skylaralexandermoore.com.
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