mausoleum of flowers

split earth’s rotting wound. your body,
a mausoleum hanging over its lip—
like a made thing. plucking flowers

on our walks, you study them close,
stumbling over your brand-new feet.
they’ll die before we make it home,

i don’t say. you are a botanist
& know all about self-
preservation. know there is no grey

in death—& you are very much alive