When you talk about beauty,
your body opens up—like a question.
Ground water swells out of your eyes,
rolls down the quiet side of your face.
My neighbor is growing a magnolia
tree. With the spring, buds spill over
into my yard and so I find ownership
too. I’ve spent thousands of hours
in its sun. Marveled at the healing
powers found, like pink salt, in
each roseate petal. Listened to
the sharp beeps or caterwauling
of native birds with hidden faces.
They know what alchemy lies in
the white space, the tender unfurling
of scent as captured by a breeze.
I want to show you how poets
feel about spring; to cut up
my hands only to bring you
a cup overflowing with life-after.
I think at first, my limbs were
broken. The sun cauterizing the
exposed wounds. So intensely
I lived. I found my breath
rolled under the sheets with
my underwear. I found a
male body, porcelain glazed,
next to mine and dissolved.
So intensely, I lived:
in disruption, in other bodies,
in means to forget. Dragged
myself along like a mannequin.
Beat at the doors of earth for
an exit. I woke up, then died.
over and over again in an
endless cycle, until there was
no hell to crawl back to. So,
intensely I lived. In moonlight,
in violet and in red. In that
sentient space between where
he left me and where I stand.
Dani Janae is a 24 year old poet living in Pittsburgh, PA.