by Denzel Joyson A J
The natural order of things ensures that one day, the rain will not come for you //
Only when the skies are a sickly shade of blue will the others know that she has picked you.
But the thing about wondering when you are going to inevitably feel her warm embrace is that no one bothers telling you that she will creep up on you like a migraine you weren’t fully prepared for.
You don’t get to take the trash out before she decides to gently tug at your sagging stem and tear you out of the earth even though you’re terrified that the bins will overflow and slowly infiltrate every inch of a now unfamiliar living room that you no longer have any use for //
You don’t get to throw out all the fruits you didn’t eat even when you know you ought to get rid of them before she tenderly picks you up off the ground and presses your leaves between the tip of her left thumb and the top of her calloused left index finger to squeeze out any remaining verdure that might hamper your voyage //
You don’t get to make that one phone call you should’ve made five years ago and tell her that you love her too before this whispering stranger lovingly rips out your muted golden petals one by one, each a tired reminder of what could’ve been //
You don’t get to scream in agony at the sun that you once let in through the windows at exactly 9 in the morning every single day for the last sixteen years / You don’t get to beg him to let you follow him around because you don’t know where you’re going as she gently prods you and tells you that it is time to leave //
You don’t get to beg the wind to mourn you in her whispers because you’re afraid no one else will as the waiting stranger begins to mindlessly chew on your florets before asking you to hurry along //
You don’t get to leave a part of yourself behind in the soil that once housed you whole / You don’t get to linger on, no matter how much you want to //
But the shepherd will not lead you to the butcher.
She will hold your hand as you weep amber tears and stain the ground around you //
She will run her cold fingers through your hair as you struggle to stand up straight and stare directly at the sun //
She will listen patiently as you curse a God you’ve never known for letting your petals rot //
She will empty out her water-skins, pouring them into you as you beg her to do something about the cursed thirst that is beginning to dry you out //
She will smile at you and tell you that this will only take a minute //
You are never going to know when death will rip you out of the ground, roots and all, but before she does, she will pray for them to bury you in a vase.
Denzel Joyson A J is a poet, student of English literature and problem-child-in-chief currently residing and working in the city of Bangalore in India. They enjoy hand-rolling cigarettes and making avant-garde music in their downtime.