And on earth you can find a
blue flower that stands ridged,
creased down the middle from stem to root. A
dance with death, displayed so tenderly.
Evening strikes and by then it’s wrinkly and buckled, the
fragile anther shriveled down to a
godmother’s hands. She’ll say a thousand
Hail Mary’s about how beauty finds its way into death with
inviting colors and soft, leafy septal fray.
Jade hues and leaves sharp enough to
kill. She was right to
lick your wounds with a
mouthful of blue dye and petals.
Nothing compares to the sting
of lemon zest infused antiseptic. She
preaches on Sundays, Aconitum napellus brewing
quietly to a simmer. Pass the grail, create
rhapsodies of blue-stained lips and
sour teas. Orange and lemon
ties tongues to puckered lips.
Unquestionably poisonous, served
violet to blue, dusted in sheets of gold.
Wolfsbane grows hollow,
xenobiotics filtering through
your liver. And by midnight your sips of Godmother’s intercession
zeroes out your blood cells and you go to rest.
—
Madison Ingram is a Junior Literary Arts Major at Appomattox Regional Governor’s School for the Arts and Technology. They have a passion for poetry, copyediting, and music.
