Seth Garcia

It’s gotten so I can’t 

say what’s in my heart: words fall 

like white plum blossoms. 

Predictions and graphs 

unimaginable as the

colors seen by birds.

From where then did all 

this come? Dispatches of wind

through which wind sirens. 

What feels like disgrace 

on my hands; I feel the world 

might shatter if touched. 

I don’t need any 

more dispatches from beyond. 

Now breath enters in. 

The text reads I’ve slit

my wrists. Outside, beauty bares

its recompenses.

Redbud blossoms, leaves

under a sky which hasn’t 

for years been so clear.