I don't hope for hibiscus | storySouth

I don't hope for hibiscus

​the first time I was given a cup
of flower essence it was hot,
unsweetened, red like lovers
clotted in my veins. slid down
the column of my throat
like a thread to mend the
ruptures. its steady tartness
replaced my blood, flushed
free every time I blushed so
you could see me. the first
time I was given a cup of flower
essence its sour revived me from
reverie loosened me from trance,
from storms I’d rehearse daily.
I woke up a drained riverbed,
damp and sifting for silt.
I woke up my love a different shade
darker than the bottomless color
cupped in my hands darker
than the hollow of two bodies.
I woke up and chose mud over blossoms
oxygen over rain clouds. this slow healing
over hemorrhage.