Magnolia blossoms: lustrous as the moon
and smooth as ivory, soft against his skin—
but even in his dreams, he’s cursed: as soon
as he reaches out, they fall apart—again,
again—that vision of the delicate
ghostly petals strewn across the stone,
the distant knowledge of the guarded gate—
and his waking realization:
……………………………….. the Garden is gone.
Restless now, he stares at the rising sun,
that golden apple laid in a pool of blood—
but the lambs were sacrificed,
……………………………….. the seed was sown,
and remembering the past has done no good.
But then the birdsongs quicken, still the same,
so with a broken voice, he recites each name.