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ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Mensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 

 

 

EMBODIED SOIL
by Sarah Conklin 

 

 

 

 

You never loved me, I was just a body.

I come home to dead flowers hanging on the wall, parched but aesthetically pleasing
dry from humidity and a lack of love
The eucalyptus has lost its scent
the only odor stuck between parallel windows
smells of lust

The roses from the week before have lost their petals
for there are no kisses shared between drywall corridors leading to a bedroom
full of lavender and lilies turned gray
Because love doesn’t live here anymore
And you can’t grow in a place with a foundation of sex without love, nor intimacy being only physical.
When will you admit I was just a body, and this house is not our home. 

                                           

 

                                                                                                                                   
Embodied Soil

Momma has a flower garden
filled with mixed vegetables
she calls it unique soil.

Secrets embodied
holding together situations with stems,
releasing poor nutrients in the ground
pesticides sprayed daily.

Daddy has a shed
full of tools
he helps Momma’s garden grow.

A shovel to bury the bodies
and a rake to cover Mommas secrets
with a sheet
of basil
to cover the stench
of who Daddy can be.

   

 

                                                                                                                    
Pretty sure I lost a good one.

And we talked over old fashions
stealing kisses over old memories
of forget me not’s
a penny for your thoughts
and truth be told
with loud music in the background
our only distraction
in a room full of characters
accompanied by a double date.

After drinks
we went back to the apartment
full of a twin side bed for two
making space for lust and love too
four is a party,
for once told a story
of a time when kisses were hung in frames
and songs were heard through ears of lovers.

I've gone deaf, the music has stopped playing
and the bed is full of distance reaching to be loved by a body
that was once held by a love
tempted by lust and a lover
but no last lover at that.

But once a love that tasted of an old-fashion
who grew strong full of bitters
making this love story bittersweet.

 

 

About the Author:

Sarah Conklin is an undergraduate student working to get her PHD in child psychology, with a minor in creative writing.


 

 

 

 

 

     
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