by Sophia Cirignano

After the hour walk in the sun 
              down the trembling 
path that appears around each 
              bend like a vision test 
through the pale lemon dining 
              room and bronze pans 
lined against the azure wall the 
              goops of imitation oils
and the patterned garden with 
              its crowds of milky-haired 
women and their iphones poised 
              the perfect distance from 
reading glasses and past misted 
              armpits and hands gripping 
cherry coke, after all that and the 
              countless petal formations 
we give new names to—jaundice 
              blush, luminous duster—
we take the time to look up in a 
              dark wide-irised moment 
to the rustle of a large oak whose 
              dull dull color and odorless 
linen skin act as a digestive a 
              damp towel a cure to
the affliction of flowers.

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Sophia Cirignano is a recent Religious Studies graduate (MA) from Concordia University, with a focus on queer studies, writing, and teaching. Her poems have appeared in Ovunque Siamo, Apeiron Review, Gasher Journal, and elsewhere.

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