I am walking in the backyard. I am wondering if the neighbour can see me. See my breasts that are full and round. They don’t hang, my breasts. They jut outwards from my body like two suns cut in half. Radiating heat. Plants swoon and curve toward them when I walk past.
My belly is flat but expecting. Two sinewy ropes snake from the edge of my hip bones to my groin.
A dazzling camellia leans toward me. Presses her white face into my collarbone and tells me she’s about to die.
I walk to the bird bath and plunge my hand in. The water is brackish and cold and I wish for a goldfish to bite my fingers.
My hips are narrow, like a boy’s, but they strain with promise.
The faintest sound behind me. Camellia has thrown herself to the ground. She is dead. My collarbone weeps for her.
My thighs are white. They are muscled and freckly. They don’t tremble when I walk. But soon they will.
Plants strain toward me. Push their lushness at my face.
My hair is short. I keep its wildness in check.
In my womb is a seed that is growing. Queen of an unmanicured garden. I am the lady of the garden. I am naked, I am.