Kyla Guimaraes

New York Botanical Garden in June 2023

We arrive at the garden by morning,
once the sky has peeled itself
into a quiet orange haze, and tramp out
like silhouettes into the grainy fog.
The stench of burning looms on the horizon
and is swept in by a thickening wind.
Waxy green leaves heavy with this impenetrable
weight of living without reprise.
We laugh open-mouthed into the ache
and bite into ham-and-cheese sandwiches
sitting beneath the weeping willow
as the dusty sky settles deep in our lungs—
the smell thick enough to be confused for pollen.
The day is humid and warm, our bodies damp
with beading sweat. Everything in full bloom.
Lush and green and gorgeous with struggle—
enough of it to burst us beautiful.
Listen: we’ve loved all along, but not openly enough.
We’ve been scared of the plumes of orange
smoke that cradle the clouds as if nursing
them to sleep. Scared our lungs will sleep next.
The weight so heavy on our chests we forget
how to breathe. But look at the leaves: so close
to the ground but never touching it. Loving
and still alive. All these years,
we’ve avoided the dangerous lurch—
but here the fruits of desire
are ready for the taking, low-hanging
on trees and nearly ripe. We can only love
with as much living as we are willing to have
taken away.