Through a lit window in the soil, an unseen garden. Ear to the ground & a whimper of blood. The unholy histories of a thousand dresses suddenly clamoring against skull & bone, clamoring with the heft of roses against the eaves. Girl, you bloom just the same, perpetually engaged in a long argument, blade held scrupulously to the neck. Nothing lets up because the blade is you, is your mother, is the scent of marigolds balled into a fist. Is— every rain-swelled seed sunned into shadow before another man makes the whole world creak. Upstairs, yours too a humble mouth, a tiny ache burst into a tumult of flowers.