UnicornLuisa A. Igloria
From this distance, the gardens bloom like so many accomplices to history. So much writing, stenciled in summer colors— white and hibiscus, the poppies’ red hearts correctly dotted with black. No one could miss such perfection, all the straight plots laid out in a true- type font, proceeding virginal and slim. Creamy cabbage roses drowse in the heat, flushed but studious and so doomed in their avoidance of risk. But it’s summer. The air should be, as it begins to be, suffused with lavender. Tender with scent and the spirit of my own longings, their stems call out to be crushed and taken. I would set my hand to roam the grass, sniff the ground to read the fierce turns in the ravine, follow them all the way to the jagged coastline and that strip of earth dissolving as watery tissue. Against firelit fields, branches of larch and pine embrace— generous as narrative, intricate as a Flemish tapestry. When you step into view, something trembles loose from my bones and I become more than flesh, invisible to all but you.
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