Nasturtiums

I
Then the ground was lit
by a sprawl of them.
Lily pad leaves, spiced,
sticky bloom. A flame
rushing the field.

II
Then, at home, a spark
struck me. My robe caught.
The belt, knotted, so I rose
as smoke above the roar.

III
Then the doctors peeled what skin remained. Laid pieces
of my parchment on the plains of grainy muscle.

(My breasts and back they wrapped
in corpses’ skin.)

IV
Then, months later, my face bland, glazed
from the grace of morphine, my body,
thin-limbed. Bent,

creviced like bark.
Fingernails, black,
rough to the touch,
crumbly as charcoal.

V
Behind my eyes, still,
the beaded leaves,
veined, shot with light.
Blossoms like bright mouths—
the needle-sweet tongues.

---

Dion O'Reilly has spent most of her life on a small farm in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Her prize-winning book, Ghost Dogs, was published in February 2020 by Terrapin Books. Her work appears in American Journal of Poetry, Cincinnati Review, Narrative, The New Ohio Review, The Massachusetts Review, New Letters, Rattle, The Sun, and other literary journals and anthologies.