Dark sunset blooms above my veins,
Human valleys in marrow eruption.
Amaranthine plum-drip bruises
Mark me crimson thief, orchard’s fox.
Botanic sangria slither, my throat a pink road,
Summer’s death the wine of rot and endings.
Plum thief wears mortal wound,
Seeping fatality brands intruder.
Night beast creeping,
I wear hungry, changing skin.
Soft necks open at my suggestion, sing.
I am a girl as a seed is a contained thing,
an almost thing,
a will-be thing.
I, the slowest bomb, quietest eruption.
This valley will eject me,
The toothy citizen.
Verdant patina, jade of rot’s grasp,
Verdigris mold in resplendent, changeling smear.
I sleep in a pulsing, carmine hollow.
There are a dozen words for wound,
But I suppose my name shall suffice.
There is no place here for predators.
Skin perfumed with twilight’s musk,
Closed eyelid a kaleidoscope veil cracking.
Juice stains fur tapestry, unzipping.
Hunted testament, fur tacked high,
Taxidermy desecrates decay’s appetite.
I am the insatiable heretic.
Morning brings pollen-pulse stain, searing.
You will know when there is no other way.
I slip into purple martin’s skin,
Oil slick whisper,
Become sky’s weightless shadow.
Beak loosed upon green writhe below,
Bellies break in sour plum honey,
For even worms must feast.
There is always another way into the orchard.
Alyssa Blankenship
Alyssa Blankenship is a working artist. Previously unpublished, Alyssa creates works that center around heavy themes expressed through the lens of the natural world.
