by Erin Westlund

Poetry blooms out of my mistakes.
While crickets disrupt the night – insomnia patients hit triple the rates.
Two-thousand-twenty-five years in and still we cannot fly by the means of nature.
Perhaps, my use of the word still exposes my ignorance; or merely my position.
Being born between a leg and a skyscraper,
my friend tells me he doesn’t know what is real.
Therein lies the fun, the tragedy, the rub.
Compensation at its finest,
is served through deception – seasoned with low self esteem.
I remain calm,
swimming in the sounds of this club.
For my garden is full,
and light refracts rainbows through Sun’s beam.
The convoluted system of roots grows beneath me;
and, still, poetry blooms out of yellowed leaves and rose petals trace my steps.
Biodiversity runs this factory – contrary to the belief that it is solely governed by Mother Bee.
She does suck the lavender dry while golden honey drips down the black and yellow coat She reps.
I am a mere bystander to all that She does, so, don’t cry to me if you’re stung.
The single thing that satisfies her is your weakness.
Blue or Pink or Green; you had no choice, no wonder last night’s mascara stains your cheeks.
Evict the shame.
My suggestion is protection,
because between Her and you, only one could fly by the means of nature.
Still, my garden is forgiving,
surveilled by angels and demons alike.
My shadow lingers on those rose petals – the ones you can follow.
But the thorns, those tend to stay hidden,
through veins, blood, mothers and their mothers.
Another health scare from water with harsh metals.
Still, my love is written by flowers.
Alluring – yes, but prone to allergic reactions.
I only hope the visitors know their weakness the way I understand mine:
Being awake in the unconscious hours and returning home to those celestial showers.