Marie Viljoen
　

Dream

You walked me into
this place of green trees
and breathing

Now I stand the way
I came in

At a loss
　

The Terrace

The lilies are nothing but a camouflage

four foot lures
diversions drawing fire
cloaking my retreat

ringing golden on the fifth floor
shooting pollen at stars at night
shedding sweetness

beatifying the dry scar
　

The Gardener

The noble and corrupt
core of methe waterer
in awe of flowers

If I were tied
deprived of tools and garden
kept on pills
held down to gaze upon myself

Would the core hold
confess, redeem

Might it just cease
　

Balance

I must time my disappointments
carefully

Calculating the risk
of checking the cellphone message

Against interrupting my late breakfast
on the brittle sun terrace
To diffuse this tension

this expectation
this message
this potential good news
must be nothing to me

before I have eaten
both pieces of toasted baguette
with apricot jam

-all poems previously published at The Other Voices International Project