EMMA TRELLES Courage and the Clock


Let the gods of glass and self pondering Know I hold tiny faith in their perfumes. One minute, lavender dusts the lips. Next, A dirty rope at the throat. There’s no telling.


Beneath each breast waits a hive, a garden Green with jaws. Where we live, death is a favorite guest. See bees flock the felt corpse of a dove, how a child Desires his wings? No time for mourners. Except For me, I can’t stop filming my own funeral.


Bury me on top of you, a pretty bed Dressed in mauve thorns and femurs seamed together. Your neck the most succulent of lures. I’ll forget My fears and eat the long grasses of your hair. I’m brave enough.


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