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The Garden of my Agony

By Danielle Badra From Issue No. 1

Always. Always say always.

               Only today can we say our story.

A thousand small Persian horses sleeping


               Yes, the syllable sprains like a dry branch

in the plaza with the moon on your forehead.

               Come out and shine like a crocus shines

when I embrace your waist four nights.

No one knows the perfume

               that ignites our alphabet.

No one knows the martyrdom

               half lost in a pollen dusted lawn.

               Do not question elegance. The world opens up to you

between gypsum and jasmine.

               Do not ask the word what shapes each side.

Your body is a fugitive of always.

Enemy of the snow

               stamped on a worn wall.

A hummingbird of love between the teeth.

               This is not what we are; this is not what we want.

About Danielle Badra More From Issue No. 1