Garden

he borrows her violence
bending and twisting
around his wrists
tangling the words he trips over
asking her to escape from this
the vines blossom rapidly
their stalks at the roots thicker than maple
reaching and thinning out
in an effervescent attempt for humanity
younger versions are born
and spread from amidst their waists
effortless spawning in a timeless whirl
his seconds bear upon her hours
leaves spreading brown mist
carpeting the sodden ground
replacing serenity with trouble
in a mix of limbs and branches
he drops his borrowed vigor
undoing time like a hundred desert summers
withering beneath a violent thousand degrees
the ground recalls what had been released
her garden dies in the time it took her to breathe
she holds the dirt like a lover's embrace
he tells her again to try to escape.

Kelly Curiel
February 1, 2008