HYACINTH

It was said that I
tripped.

Bruised cheekbone,
a purple-yellow hill of hyacinth. Just after
the first big bloom.

Held tight to the stem
little fingers uncurl
to stroke the tired air.

.

.

A BRUISE TOO SWEET

And I said I had fallen.

………………………………………Rolling in the bitter earth, a bruise
………………………………………too sweet to enjoy.

Fat drops of rain. White spores on a shrinking fist. An infection borne down into the cells.

………………………………………Fruits, those organ shapes, piled on the roadside.
………………………………………Young bodies, a waste inedible.

What kind of burial is this?

Brighde Moffat is the editor-in-chief of Hematopoiesis, an editorial assistant at VIDA Review, and a poetry reader at Anomaly. Their work has appeared in The Rumpus, Autostraddle, Nat. Brut, and Stirring.