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.
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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