Trellis for Roses
We met on the forest floor.
I was dizzy and you whispered in my ear
“lay on the cool kind Mother.”
I believed in you and left behind
those who told me to fear her cold embrace.
And perfect in trust I remain
as do you who loves the white bones of me,
the one person I know who would
drink red wine out of my skull,
who would make of my ribcage
a trellis for roses
and piece together with my skeleton
an archway to your garden—
portal to faeries
decorated with bits of your hair,
pomegranite flowers and fragrant
leaves of the eucalyptus.