The Sundays Devoid of Flowers

The Sundays Devoid of Flowers

written by: Iluvia Triste

 

i was buried deep in
this ground
where flowers never bloomed
yellows. where stones
and dusts were sharp
mouths that cut skins,
leaving no apologies
on my medicine chest
that i could reach out to
to mend all the bruises
in my sunday mornings.
i had stitch marks of the suns
all over but
that didn’t quiet the slow
whimpers, or soothe
ill bodies,
this body
with empty bones
and crippled shoulders to lift
the immensity of the grounds
and crash it in front of the
sun–
bold,
unsorry,
rebellious
to dry off all the ugly morning
dews clinging
like bad omens on the
pastures.
on the balusters.
on my windows.
on my chest.
i was buried 6 feet underground,
and my veins were roots
sprouting
as flowers
that waited for sundays
that never,
never
came.