There is a body among the ghostflowers—
it creeps like honey in between the petals,
the belly of their nakedness, violates
corners, stem, the fragility of the figure
entirely. He mistakes the spot of blood-
shot for a clot, a ruined fuschia
abandoned at the root during the solstice,
the time for dying.
Wings beat and lash at their bed,
in their bed— the fraction of time
between bulb and bloom and bloodless—
A sting. The slow push of gravity draws
him toward the dirt, the flesh and scald of summer.
Ashley Beene is currently working on her MFA in Poetry at the University of California, Riverside. Her work has been published in Illumination, the undergraduate creative journal at the University of Wisconsin, Madison.