The Drowning Garden

I planted roses where you drowned,

Their roots grew deep to kiss your hair.

The petals bloomed black underground,

Their perfume thick with drowned despair.

The villagers still whisper low

Of how you waltzed into the lake—

"A careless slip," the priests all swore,

But willows watched your fingers shake.

I come at dusk to trim the thorns

That climb like bones up garden walls.

The water sighs your name at dawn,

And through the reeds, your shadow crawls.

Last night, I felt your hands again,

So cold and green with rotting grace,

You pressed a bud against my vein—

"Our love will grow in this dark place."

Now every rose that drinks this ground

Bears thorns that prick like lover’s teeth.

I lie between them, listening…

For your wet steps beneath the peat.

-Millie Merritt