Nasturtiums

I

Then the ground was lit

by a sprawl of them—

lily pad leaves,

spiced, sticky bloom,

a flame rushing the field.

II

Then at home, a spark

struck me. My robe caught.

The belt was knotted, so I rose

as smoke above the roar.

III

Then the doctors peeled

what skin remained, laid pieces

of my parchment on the plains

of grainy muscle.

(My breasts and back they wrapped

in corpse’s skin.)

IV

Months later, I gazed at my face—

bland, glazed with the grace

of morphine, my body,

thin-limbed and bent,

my fingernails, crumbly as coal.

V

Behind my eyes, still,

the beaded leaves,

veined, shot with light.

Blossoms like bright mouths—

the needle-sweet tongues.