Wilder

There’s no guilt in forgetting the taste of you,

when the sea dominates with salt ready to treat an old wound.

The morning-after, a seed, spreading where I don’t belong.

As if anyone has witnessed the scent of Eden,

or proved that every seductive thing was once holy.

In this garden where you walk away, barefoot,

I tend to all flowers equally, though they die before you write back.

Like most heritage, it hurts: Mother says, “Here are your roots”,

then takes to the hibiscus with an army knife in honour

of her own cut losses. I do not feel any less for it.

Nor do I miss you as kindred. That’s the test they say

– hunger for another’s mouth.

The seasons cool in a glance and we thirst,

for any fallen thing that still hums.

As if complications too could be wild.

To lie naked, simply – like at birth or death

– the dark field made for loving the difficult parts.

Everywhere, the white jasmine parting,

its scent catching us off guard – before we can say no.

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Vikki C. is a British-born, award-nominated writer and author of The Art of Glass Houses (Alien Buddha Press) and Where Sands Run Finest (Dark Winter Press). Her recent work appears in Dust Poetry Magazine, One Hand Clapping, Stone Circle Review, EcoTheo Review, ONE ART Poetry, Black Bough Poetry, Ice Floe Press, Acropolis Journal, The Broken Spine, The Belfast Review, Salò Press, and other venues.