Apology to My Beloved

Eric Tran

Another story in a garden,

but now we’re thieves. First,

our palms blushed black-

red with berries, then thorn

-kissed for the roses.

You want spent poppies,

purses of seed, and I count

all the pockets in my shorts.

When I say there’s no limit

to what I’d take for you,

I mean I was young

when I learned plants love

music. I held headphones

over the cucumber vines, tiny

flowers bookmarking lemon,

and looped Mariah Carey power

ballads. What a precious

little homo, still learning

how queerness nourishes

such bounty. I meant I know

how the moonflower, the fox-

glove, even the native fly trap, open

for us. Relaxed and radiant. I teased

when I said thief, we know this world

is a gift that wants re-gifting. When we kiss,

we paint life passing

from one bloom to another.


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