A Painting of a Pressed Flower
The open book on the small entry table
by the front door
waits with the keenness of two children,
hand in hand.
I pick a sole carnation
from Kilmt’s Beech Forest Buchenwald.
Between the two solid
bookends, it folds nature onto itself.
Undisturbed for years
like a saint, its colors peeled from its skin
like paint. The residue bleeds through pages
five through eleven.
What of the sun
that this carnation has been cut
at the legs?
If the body is a house, then this flower
is a tower to marvel at
like a crucifix in a farm garden.
The sun exudes into the room
eclipsing Leda-like tragedies.
The shadow of the carnation is cast outwards
like fingers reaching from the book
to touch the switch of memory.
The sea wants her. It chimes
For her. It wants two women.
I give it one.
She is a shapeless stone.
She is a shadow under
Water. She is never storm-
Yet, she descends.
I drag her out in white,
Bruised. And she’s asleep
From too much water.
A terrible fish, a loss of sound,
Joshua Burton is a poet from Houston, TX and is currently a MFA candidate at Syracuse University. He enjoys Elliott Smith, Emily Dickinson, Terrance Hayes and anime.