Jars of Cognac Jasmine

by Livy Poulin

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i met her in may so when the air is filled
with a sudden sweet concentrate
like confectioners sugar in the wind
from the stir of jasmine flowers
i’m reminded of her i’m reminded
how her fingers tasted like nectar to me but i was born
biting my tongue so i crave blood like i crave
a tender touch how soothing it felt when she pressed
into my bruises how we sank the jasmine
petals into jars of cognac as if spirit could be distilled
from this picture-perfect moment between
two almost strangers i let the jarred jasmine drop
& detonate any expectation of preserved
perfume drowned out by acrid memories
like, instead of saying sorry she called me
sensitive not knowing i learned self love by masturbating
in the mirror when i noticed just how much i resembled
the bleeding hearts that grew every year
in my mother’s garden my heart bleeds— it’s supposed to
sure, i am sensitive i might cry if you ask
how i’m doing i look forward to summer rain
the most when the smell of may is washed
away & suddenly i remember to breathe 
is a boundless feeling 
& i remember to be beautiful 
is to be precious 
& to be precious 
is to be kept 
in a jar, drowning

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Livy Poulin (she/her) is a writer and artist who enjoys playing in a range of mediums. Originally from Maine, Livy now resides in Los Angeles with her cat, where she lives her best creative, queer life.