cacti metaphors
there is reverence in the repetition of this season: plant, soil, water, repeat. through the vines of ivy, we saw our years glitter by, softly at first, then all at once. not much grows in arizona, except the cacti, which meant we saw our bodies twist towards the sharp thorns, watched ourselves thrive off drought. the story here is repetition. the story here is understanding that to grow is a synonym for change. not much grows in arizona, yet there is beauty here nonetheless. over the years, i watched your sundowns bleed through the night sky, sunkissed each aspect of the ocotillo we didn’t dare touch. there is repetition in each metaphor: saguaro, ocotillo, yucca. i name endless plants and pray on each loose petal for a kinder season, for the desert to grant mercy on us yet again. the elegy left to grow in my garden furthers itself; the elegy is me, baby, the garden is inside my body. the elegy is a lavender plant growing in a mexican clay pot. see, look at my garden. i am no longer trying to watch my body twist into the individual thorns of a saguaro, no longer trying to force growth where it will not happen. see, look at my garden. i am no longer trying to create a garden out of my body; i am just trying to make my body a home.
nuclear winter, burning planet
how do you love / a forest on fire / a body on fire / wildfire / how do you love / decomposition / water under the bridge / tell me how to love / decay / how to love nature after its ruin / how to appreciate / ruin / tell me what it means to / love an invasive species / how to explain the beauty of kudzu / tell me how immortality is the same as lingzhi / how the fountain of youth / is tree rings counted / how the water of my blood / runs clear / how mango orange lights / mean that my blood stays / brown of my ancestors / tell me how to love / smoke-filled skies / bright red sunsets fade into / your lips / and i wonder how many roses i have / to buy until you understand / i’d love you past / eventual nuclear winter / fated death / fated ruin / fated love / becomes new climate crisis / becomes a burning planet / becomes a forest on fire / because wildfire becomes / decomposition / becomes loving a house on fire / tell me how immortality is / great basil brittlecone pine / forever becomes / half a second or / fourty-nine thousand years / tell me how immortality is this: / handfuls of zoloft shovelled into / your mouth as / you pretend you’re fine / i forgot i take prozac / tell me how lingzhi is the longest living mushroom / yet it’s lifespan is fourty-five / how do you love / a forest on fire / if that forest is nothing but / a body on fire / wildfire / or a hozier song / or the garden of eden / or another smiths song / & loving a house on fire / & loving salt in a wound / & loving overripe strawberries / & loving nuclear winter / fated death / fated ruin / new climate crisis becomes / a burning planet / tell me how / the water of my blood / is clear / how my blood stays the same / brown as my ancestors
arushi (aera) rege is a queer, chronically-in-pain, Indian-American poet. They tweet occasionally about poetry & motorsports @academic_core and face the perils of instagram @arushiaerarege. A three-time pushcart nominee, they are the proud author of exit wound (no point of entry), BROWN GIRL EPIPHANY, and suburban suicides. They are the EIC of ink&ivy lit and Bus Talk. You can find their website at arushiaerarege.carrd.co.