Glass Garden | Casey Daly

CASEY DALY

I read a book about conservatory plants last night, watched my friends as they drank warm Daisy Cutters in the hot tub. There was a birthday, or there must have been. I wondered for how long the cigarette trail would be floating around in that glass pool house, maybe it would be trapped for months. We plucked apricots from the walls and swam naked under trees. They only grew in Haiti, Tom said. I’m beginning to learn that some places are good to be stuck in. I watched Venus sparkle through the ceiling, like the sweet glitter we tasted in our Sangria. Too many stars in our heads.

July always seemed to be the month that could change it all, the month to swim topless in conservatories, and listen to the crickets breathe for a moment. I thought of how he kissed me two nights ago and probably never would again, thought of him peeling posters from the wall. There was supposed to be an eclipse soon. I want it off my skin more than anything, the question being if it was better to soak off the dead skin or rip into it with nails and teeth. I’m afraid some longing never goes away.

Ella asked if I would take a nude of her while she blew out smoke – lanky, in front of an orchid waterfall, the decapitated head of a white marble Buddah, and another hardcover book about plants. She asked if I wanted one too; I said no, let’s swim. She tousled up my hair and tucked an electric blue flower behind my left ear. You look great.