The garden of death
by Claire Trévien
[ poetry - march 10 ]
after Hugo Simberg
This is what you might hear: pebbles
ricocheting against sallow phalanges,
a patella creaking at every step, flies suckling
tibias, or darting in and out of sockets.
You might mistake them for some bêtes de scènes
with their unretractable teeth, smiling at the plants:
myrtles, chrysanthemums, forget-me-nots,
butterflies grounded or calendulas,
flowers star-shaped, laddered or spiked, .
That is what you might see.
You won't smell a thing as you join them,
though you'll finger your nasal concha in hope.
Their shining skulls are the only palpable
thing amongst the painted flats: the flora,
mere crayola they try to cup in their hands.
