Cambium — Guérin Kairu

foliage, aphid’s hour :: finding clay with flesh and flesh :: a mast
maiden of its own :: petals clear themselves :: of voice undressing
distance :: in a kite of mist :: or does it :: slack dimensions :: yet
in its visible :: partitions :: indicate the wave of condensation

the moon is :: as you are :: growing somewhere :: you are
stung with light :: never still :: as if the sun were ever ::
twisting meristems :: beyond the dart by mean defenestration

glade of dampness, fingernail, nematodes, grass :: wet black
runs blue moss :: through cracked green jars

remembering :: what a body here before became :: that what a
black body is is another :: measurement of green :: a trash of
treasure in the limb of movement :: steadied :: in the body tips
an aggregate of rooms

abandoned :: as a stricture :: as the way a sentence weathers
a refusal :: a relenting :: if there were dead leaves unsure ::
briars, at their hips :: irreconcilable :: diluted :: long before
length and since the mirror :: muddy water

warden of the flood :: the lake :: the bloated body answers ::
buoyant questions you cannot :: yield to lungs :: in air opaque
to instant :: weather leaves :: blue heights as proof of life ::

in the lathe of thorns and humus :: arthritic afternoons :: as if
they could congeal another passage :: as if leaves :: retracting
their molecules reseal :: the body into silence

the hour fills :: its mouth with blue :: and leaves :: receives
wind that passes over memory :: a blur :: a shift of eyes
suspends :: transparency is not the death of touch

care must be taken not to be :: thrown against sharp green
branches :: a billion ligatures unblinking

lungless :: breath of every passage :: grass is debt and want
for resurrection :: lavender, peony, abelia, marrow :: the
amplitudes of anointing :: and the brief collide :: the silence
of their shapes

through windows :: penetrated :: by the envelope of light ::

gold before gold :: how does it decide to rule :: this world with
fire :: and not

soaking into the loam :: inside which roots :: consuming a
future’s worth of lilies :: if they could they would :: swallow
all tomorrows for a spar :: of yesterday :: profuse with fluid
tonguing sugar

plunging :: the thin between your fingers :: moving earth
through atomic teeth :: diatoms :: bryophytes :: fungal sports
the subtle magnetism :: sunk, in bones

in mud :: you cannot know :: your sweat from buried burlap
or what will keep :: the bindweed from your eyes :: so isolated
the weave cannot possess :: the room for promise or a memory
of the moon

dear to our desire :: not to drown, we leave :: houses made of
bleach and dust :: unchecked in vines :: a viscera retains the
distances of vessels :: flashing vapor

but thirst cannot be written from the world :: it curves :: almost
visible in flames :: in quickened sheets of umber :: scald of
limbs interring

foliage, in fool’s exposure :: earth unearthing earth :: blue-
black, blue-green, green-gold :: blades if honed :: by their
share of light

excise themselves from hunger :: that their eyes consume :: the
word away from the world

not as light but within :: returning :: minerals that rise and sink
with our incisions :: how the words find us :: a scape escaping
into highs :: amaryllis, hosta, lily–of–the–Nile

the body yields :: submits :: an ink the leaves recall :: a
beginning :: at the gate :: is this :: wherein the answer
manifests :: the price of particle and wave on green

only if green were :: as much a color as the hue of dreams ::
palmate :: fingers cannot help but lie :: about the sun :: how it
burns an image through :: our eyes against the light :: confuses
our senses into stalking shadows :: or ourselves

the mud :: the day evaporates :: is a denial :: how we are pools
into the hours slow :: refracting like a love into its own ::
decay :: the displaced language :: blotting edges into capture

blue-blue :: through blue-black, to black-blue :: the same nude
mask :: accepting ink and mute desire down to flowers ::
entered into quiet flood

the writhing blood of height :: to settle dust between your
mouth :: and mine :: unsettles :: membranes :: mites :: machine
of weightless white :: estranged from truth :: their tonnage
spares us from watering :: roots :: revolving with our bones ::
rivers running thin :: into anonymity

late holds up a mirror to tomorrow :: as much as yesterday was
to become :: lonely :: as a singularity :: as if illusion knows the
shape of any destination :: it imitates :: copses :: cliffsides :: a
country night to call :: your home

in what is still, can still :: be seen :: in the wake of petals
silhouette by silhouette by seam :: absorbing :: every
dislocation :: fleeing into myth

foliage, at this hour :: observing :: our paralysis :: and, in its
freight, twisting :: seeds beyond the dark by means of immolation
a recovery :: to reignite the lungs

Guérin Kairu is a post-disciplinary artist, writer, and plantsperson who, when not creating, belongs to four gardens and six trees. He lives in Atlanta. Twitter: