She tucked vials of water in her hair,
refilling them whenever she showered
or swam. Once they learned her secret,
birds came, and she was crowned with
dry-throated moths. Her friends filled
the vials with cut flowers, which stayed
bright all day, even in the hot afternoon.

Her pillow molded and then mossed
over, wet from the spilled water every
night. Her bed turned dark with humus,
and her hair blushed green. Her room
became a knoll, her body blossoming
in one long plot. The birds still hunted
round seeds. Thirsty moths still drank.

And her friends cut flowers from her
wrists to carry home, unsure if she
was there or not, whether she had
gone.