Gabriella Alziari


I smile,

clutching a handful of freshly-cut lilacs

dew drips from their bones



trickles down my thighs, my fingers,

catches in the fatty folds of skin


And here I am the flower

breathing purple, light and wispy,

slipping into history


Stepping into years before me,

familiar as a thread to the fraying seam,

occupying an opening,

returning to the ground