Orange Blossom
       

It is spring, which means soon
I will feel you in my loins. And then
when the bees begin their buzzing thing,
my other parts will be filled with you.

You obliterate my softest pieces, break my bones
with your bare hands—the sensation
to be killed by that which you love
is a euphoric kind of pain. Don't worry,

my sweet. I understand. I will rip off my own limbs
so that you may have room to grow. I will dig
my fingers into my skull and provide you
all that I have inside so that you

may be beautiful, and round,
and never in want. How intimate
to be so entirely consumed
with you that I disappear.

I will destroy this body
again and again
every spring
for you.

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Copyright © 2021 Ivy Marie All rights reserved
from The Bitter Oleander
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission