by Lindsey Warren

Hyacinths like microphones emerge
from the topsoil to broadcast
the motives of light, the angels you had long
forsaken gather in the gem’d bodies of insects.
You read the words you wrote but never sent
like a confession.
I will only eat melons
the color of your cheeks, your hands,
devotions, grip the wood of the open drawer.
You stand up, you remove your clothes.
Outside, one bee, one loose cherub, climbs
through lavender to witness your shed
garments, your body offered to the new sun emptied
of memory, the cost of radiance.

Lindsey Warren is a graduate of Cornell University’s MFA program. She has been published in Rabid Oak, Josephine Quarterly, American Literary Review and Hobart, among others. Her poetry manuscripts Unfinished Child and Archangel & the Overlooked are available from Spuyten Duyvil. The first chapter from her novel-in-progress has been published by Litbreak Magazine. She lives in Delaware with her corgi.