Our Own Nightingales, When Snapdragons Die

OUR OWN NIGHTINGALES


Heavy with the tropes
of Fitzgerald and Keats,
you suggest our juxtaposition
to be framed by their work,
where nights are tender
and immortal birds sing
while infatuation overthrows
previous perspectives of care.


While you sing their prose
and I settle into the indulgence
of your gentle framing,
warm in its parallel burial,
we do not deconstruct
the trope of creature’s ever-long
or the pain of wallowing,
even under mental pretenses.


Perhaps it’s too close
to the inevitable floral bedding
we will find ourselves within,
or we know our adoration
may be temporal as we grow
closer to a need without opiates,
or the naive question of ends
is just too profound to mention.


In our own vulnerability
wishes of forever escape
to the forefront of thought
echoing in the dewy morning,
yet we do not sing that song.
all is ill, folly, and temporary
thus the rhymes of adieu
do not answer our questions.


Instead we mimic the minds
of Fitzgerald and Keats

questioning ends through their lines,
burying ourselves within
a fantasy of bird’s immortality
while you sing their words
and I drink in your juxtaposition,
afraid to face some truth.

WHEN SNAPDRAGONS DIE
 

Pink, magenta, and violet pigments
fading onto the pedal extremities.
The drooping organs of beauty
bloom, boom, chromatically bleed
in the warming months of spring.
Petrichor, after a summer storm,
sits still in the humid air
,

a subtle warning for vivacious beings:
time cannot hold the pretty hues
and the heated blur will steal
the flesh of the plum fingerlings
dripping from extended greens.
While the rest of the garden group
wilt from the dry, desert sun,
dying into impressionist faded visions
of their former spring colors,
these unique pinks and purples
of belled drooping blooms,
contort into humanoid remains.
Hanging skulls on a lifeless stick
graying with the desert valley
gaining a deep thirst for winter;
a natural, daybreak nightmare
waiting for the cycle of wet,
for time to gift color again.

Bio:

 

Lyndsie Conklin (she/her) is a Montanan transplanted to Colorado, living with her husband
and cat, Beans. She enjoys getting outside, being a cat mom, breakfast foods, Diet Coke, and (of
course) writing poetry and erotic fiction. Lyndsie attempts to find romance, beauty, and darkness
hidden within the little things while highlighting these little, gross beauties within complex,
current topics, such as mental health and LGBTQ+ and women’s issues. Lyndsie holds a
Bachelor of Arts in English from Western Colorado University and a Masters of Education in
Higher Education Administration from Post University. Some of her work has been featured in
Soupcan Magazine, The Sleeve Magazine, and Dreamer by Night Magazine.