Tulips
The sun-bent spines of
the tulips I bought myself
arc towards the window,
a bypass between water
and light. Their lips
part like orange slices
at the breakfast table;
they divide like mirrored
horizons. Stigma licks
the morning’s sweat
from the glass, laboring
to milk the vowel sound
from the consonants
of the three-letter word
God.
The sun-bent spines of
the tulips I bought myself
arc towards the window,
a bypass between water
and light. Their lips
part like orange slices
at the breakfast table;
they divide like mirrored
horizons. Stigma licks
the morning’s sweat
from the glass, laboring
to milk the vowel sound
from the consonants
of the three-letter word
God.
Joshua Garcia lives and writes in Charleston, South Carolina, where he is pursuing an MFA in poetry at the College of Charleston and is an editorial assistant at Crazyhorse. He was a finalist for the 2019 Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize, and his poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Image, Ruminate Magazine, Nashville Review, and elsewhere.