**This is part of a collection of poetry from Cecilia Ruvinsky**
Genus logania,
she whispers
as she drains the poison
from the flower,
as if it the chastity white petals
were honeysuckle.
She needs it to heal
her every wound,
her every pain –
from the grippe
that grips her bones,
to the hate
that makes her eyes eclipse
and her ears ring cold.
Fresh-squeezed orange juice
was useless,
and unpasteurized milk was even worse.
They solidified into worms
in the pit of her stomach,
and squirmed around,
slimy parasites,
until they found their way out of her mouth
and onto navy blue carpet.
She tried to pray it away
at the feet of Hindu gods
whose nails were riddled with kisses and fungus,
and at the hands of Friends who tried
to coax the war out of her brain,
but they for all their ivory towers and humble steeds
forgot that she was guarded
by a willful wall of truth.
Tear down the fences,
Kali, with your belt of severed heads –
pour wine into her mouth
and it’ll papercut her tongue
as it trickles down her throat.
Pry the bricks off the barriers, George Fox,
and maybe she’ll drink your teas of tansy and virtue.
Maybe she’ll let it soothe her into rebirth,
and she’ll be better than she ever was before.
Or maybe she’ll let the flowers do their purpose,
savor the poison and smile as it rocks her spirit to sleep,
and her dreams will be full of children that dance without any rhythm,
and she’ll join them as her essence ebbs away.
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