I want the garden, not the flowers
in their sterile vase, I want the bees,
the fruit, the soil under my nails,
I want to make a meal
of what is true. The grit and grief
of life, the words you never said,
caught in your throat, I want
them like I want the birds
to follow the invitation of
the moon. When I was young,
someone peeled my eyes wide
like wild grapes. Don’t you see?
I couldn’t close them if I tried.
More from Alex Dawson ↓
You can listen to me read a poem by Alex that is included in the anthology Upon Learning That over on Instagram @rembrandts.cure
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