I do not fill my bath with flowers
to be her, but because I want her.

Some elastic part of me believes
I could save her from drowning in blank

verse. Sink into murky waters, and I know
I am dying, drowning daily in this still pool

and filling my lungs with promises.
Choking lilies in scalding water, petal

from petal, the mirror fogs, shallow
with nothing, and I am too young

to understand grief as anything but longing.
I do not want her beautiful, her serene

float across death, her oil paint acceptance.
I want her flood-gasp, her bloated voice

drunk on all she’s lost. Want her blue
lips, her fingers white and frozen, her ribs

flush against skin, skin flush against fabric,
want her to sink and spoil and live

again, furious and shaking, not fearful
but feared, doom-bringer, raining violets

from her hair, peeling violets from her eyes,
shedding remembrance in petals and smoke.

I lean over my knees and wonder
how much bathwater I could swallow and still be a body.