Hell's Gardener

by Shannon Connor Winward

for Julia

There is no sun in Hell

no rain, of course, not even

earth, in the earthly sense, just

a firmament on which to orient

not up from down so much as

then from now

*

and it hurts, of course, it seethes

and burns, breaking the black rock

and digging in, shredding what

once was skin, her damned fingers

worn to nubs, like grinding teeth

*

to gums, like glass

under her spirit nails. Even still,

she's got nothing but time to wrest

surrender, rage open mouths

obsidian cracks, to thumb her fruit

down eternity's throat

*

There are no seeds in Hell

but she came here plump

as a pomegranate with all the good

she never sowed. She spits her

stillborn tomorrows, seeps blood pink

*

regret in every hole

and breathes

intention like prayer, ignites

miasmic air, incites

hellflowers to bloom

*

There is no life in Hell, of course

but there are gardens

for her, blossoms of patience

and penitence, pinwheeling rows

of firedrop petals, blazing yellow hearts, and

I'm sorrys blue as sulfur flames, blue

as she remembers

hope to be