Poem: Eau de toilette

the lush lip of

a dewy petal, suede and pale,

bruises are a hazard that blares

sharply in diffuse fragrance,

crushed veins, a slowly drooping head …

shamelessly to be discarded by the eye.

the flower has more in common

with the grave beneath it

than with the feet that trod above.

one keeps running from a given,

the other knows:

there’s nowhere else to go.

Copyright © 2019 Devina Singh
Header by Lisa Fotois
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