Gardens are for burying secrets | Nikkin Rader

don’t let him in your house,
so I dug a hole and put our found corpse in it,
but he began to sprout,
a lazarus taxon I can’t unmouth,
reappear in fossil record–
phoenix fire or witch inspired.

he wept like my father under blue TV lighting in the dead of night,
but redhead deadman risen, made only to unearth the crops–
miraculous lies spewing from liquored lips

besides magic protection for the openings of his body, man has equal need for the magic protection over openings to his dwelling, roofs of holy places, windows of holy places, a lust for strong protection more important than ordinary domestic windows. Without chimney, smoke from fires can sustain you. Travelers cannot escape the stoking, the he-smoke and she-smoke, other-smokes ignored.

or, liveth and believeth in the rise and fall of sun, to street dance on uncut rocks by moonlight days after the tomb-vowels: he who thou lovest etched over planty arcadia or echoed near our abode. no more plague on these stems from nearby death sea, just pesticides to keep the undesirables out, wrongdoer bugs exiled, sickle backs of heathens, tying all hoe down, hose ‘round tree, enmity rising from rosebeds–

he came in grave-cloth and stunk of wet shit, a beetle dwelling in his eye, black as soil, its iris wisp or sea-wine. ever since he came here the fungal curse returned, tainting berries and roots buried. sulky vision intrusive on tongue. you are not the same man born from below, no, you

became something else when under the earth, skin rotting, mind melting, in want.
wishing instead for him to shed his skin for me to wear, then go disappear back to–
from whence did you come?

I tell creature to hop o’er my fence made of dogwood tau,
but he leaves behind crushed butterflies,
worms crawling over aluminum can tabs, chewing plastic. if only
I could ground his bones into compost until we are all barren land-selves.

bodies bore of gender yet we do not make for lovers, taking to empty dirt hole.
keepers abstaining roamers thru bay of salt circles and needle thread traps,
we tire of them and spike faucet, water spew & shout:
let me cultivate the trance that burns cloudy– wets our palms splayed over fire–

sleepy somber would you drop arsenic down wishing wells or fleece wool ‘round neck
cool in early morning light? seen uphill: the man reborn of unwanted might
running down towards town before children wake.

remember, not all dead things stay lying and
not all living things simple kept– breaking bread–
shaking off what thoughts of you burrowed into my peach–

Nikkin Rader has degrees in poetry, anthropology, philosophy, gender & sexuality, and other humanities and social science.  Her works appear in Occulum, the Mojave Heart Review, peculiars magazine, littledeath lit, and elsewhere.  You can follow her twitter or insta @wecreeptoodeep

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