It’s not what you expected—no moody sepia,
no closeup of Cerberus’ triplicate jowls, or black
candles backlighting the tubercular face of a long-
dead lover. You thought you wanted an aesthetic,
a chic darkness whose shadows are all inexplicably
soft. You were waiting, in particular, for the obvious:
the halved pomegranate, its winking #WhyIStayed.
Instead, it’s just flowers. One each day, and not
even filtered, not even artfully framed—off-kilter
irises, a legion of buttercups, a tulip gobbling up
the lens. You can understand (can’t you?) why
her account goes dark during seasons of bloom.
Why it’s active only when she’s buried deep below
the unsteady earth, with nothing but a handful of seeds.
