Genevieve’s Week Two: Alhambra

 

To the red one I know so well.
To the one whose petals have,
until now, only unfurled in my
dreams, in a space I could not
touch for fear of being taken;

You live in a city full with flowers
and fountains, a place where snakes
teach laughing women what it means
to dance. Yours is a hunger
that has forgotten shame. Yours
is a mirror that cannot reflect.

My body is a flame licked into bold fire.
My dress is stitched together from the
frayed petals of blushing dogwood roses.
When I spin, the world spins with me.
Alhambra, my red one, together we sing,
sing, sing, and watch my spine uncoil.

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