Bright Bloom By Helene Achanzar

[houseonthecliff]

 

I wish I had hiked the frozen hill tonight 

for reception, called to tell you I had a good time 

 

hearing the two Somali cab drivers laughing 

near an avalanche of on-sale oranges.  

 

I played a prince in absolute awe 

as the orchestra soared. I wish I had braved

 

the snow to say, I ain't want nothing but got the world. 

How I’ll whisper about the one wasp

 

who lived with me here through all of October,  

that snowy owl in the nettles so close inland 

 

in November, the night, its lick of moon. Tell me again 

what your home looks like: wet grapefruit pulp, 

 

pomegranate juices running over fingers 

as the fruit is split, every dirt smudge 

 

on the cream carpet. The morning sunlight dancing 

off shards of glass, knocking perfume bottles 

 

and photographs, light emptying into itself like a sun 

at the center of a sun. This life of little regret 

 

with no sad trombones. I imagine a new year

caked with your grin, your unflagging belief 

 

in the bright bloom, the point just before liberation. 

The road will end one day, but on all other days, 

 

it does not. Think, my love, of all the stars 

where better versions are breathing.