There is a sunflower
erupting through
the simian crease
of my right palm.

I shed layer after layer
of salty skin
till the petals glow
in a rhapsodic rhythm.

I fear
this abrupt flowering
that I carry everywhere
like a mystery, an abnormal boon.
A disturbing comfort.

The day you left
I wept.
And since then
I am becoming
my own garden.


Painting: Sunflowers,1887, Vincent van Gogh (Met Museum, New York)