Sixfold Poetry Summer 2014

Phoebe Reeves Every Petal The roses in the pitcher open their gradient of desire.

My flesh blooms, too, and I travel its gradations: fulfillment, need, silence. The white at the height of the curve, what comes after speech.

After petals come loose in the hand.

Without the fruiting body, the red hip violent against winter’s shushing monochrome, tart and disdainful.

Muscle, also pink, also loosening, clenches its last bud. Releases its last bloom of blood.

SIXFOLD POETRY SUMMER 2014

Phoebe Reeves

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