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)
