Gethsemane

Photo by Kevin Canlas on Unsplash

A Poem by Elle Rosamilia

I keep breaking––rules, bones, promises, my heart.

Doubt tastes like metal, surrender tastes like blood.

Or maybe it’s wine, I can’t tell.

And still, the spring bleeds over

everything. My heart opens wider like a wound.

I could drown myself in bitterness if I wanted to, but April

has always been a friend. My God, my God. This garden smells like You.