Petals nested in

her hair, the jacaranda

strips. She’s nude and sighs.

Her breath, like lilac —

so sweet — seeps slowly into

the cracked asphalt street.

And in late June, when

the heat flares up, cooking clouds

like fried egg whites, she

slumps a good inch more.

Her trunk: shaken, her lips: dry

her petals: so parched.

It is then that I

find her more lonely than most

months, with light much stronger and

peace mottled purple.

It is then that I

find myself being drawn to

the ground, to petals —

now browned — strewn across

the grass. It is then

that I find myself



It is here that my branches snap, where they shed themselves of their petals

in the blazing noontime heat.

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