by Cameron Gorman
drawn around you
like an ethereal wave,
or a plastic shower curtain (with mildew).
Letting the cold envelop your body,
spreading your cheesecloth wings, fluttering without purchase—
it makes me gag.
Your head spins back to face me,
green and budding, lush and unfurling like a fern,
halo of dirt and rotten things.
I blow a gale into your mouth,
helium into the leaves, and you bloom,
decaying into the fabric of the sky,
swooping, crowning the forest with your body.
My eyes are watering,
I love you, now; I love you, baby,
I can’t see you anymore.