loco weed
Your Body, a Pretty Prison
Corey Mesler

"a song is a mirror that knows the body by heart--
is the flower garden nurtured by myth"

       Bei Dao

Sing when the ebbing begins.
My cage of bones rattles.
My prisoner scrapes a credit
card across the bars,
his face doesn't show in the
mirror. His face, too
like mine for comfort, is no
longer comfort. Off
to the side she tends her garden.
She grows hand grenades,
henbane and loco weed.
We used to escape. Now when
the sun goes down we
turn our eyes upward. The
prayers we say are all
about the past. Just once,
just one damn time,
I want to want something.
The garden grows. Of course it
does, watered in blood.
Sing now, sunlight and ache.
Oh, fellow catechumen, I love you.