Walk Within the Garden As If It Were a Garden, by Rachael Lin Wheeler

Walk Within the Garden As If It Were a Garden
after Villa of Livia 

In the room, you are surrounded
by silent birds, each set of wings 
stilled and doused in whatever you consider 
the absence of colour. Miles shrinking 
to a pinch, horizon an elusive diffraction 
of light. Beaks brush feathers as if just realizing 
they are there. Free: illusion. 
The layers of stained blue make you forget 
that you too are made 
of many skins; that walking through the garden 
means stepping outside 
of your body, your face one 
flammable fresco, your ribs a thin cage 
you cannot kiss. If: a whisper. 
The warm fruit blooms 
and never stops, resting on the shadows 
housed by leaves. You do anything 
but look at the ceiling 
or speak of the goldfinch. Let us pretend 
no crack weaves through the neck of a bird 
like one great Cupid’s arrow 
splintered down its center. Let us not mention 
the slant of gates, so close to breaking.
            The stucco 
on the ceiling wakes you up; makes you remember 
the architecture of another room’s silence 
made of walls. 

You curl your fingers into a fist, 
not wanting to knock, 
knowing no one is on the other side.  

Rachael Lin Wheeler

Rachael Lin Wheeler is currently a student attending Choate Rosemary Hall in Connecticut. Her poetry, prose, and photography have been recognized by Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. She is also the founder and editor of Vox Viola Literary Magazine, an intersectional feminist online publication, which can be found at https://voxviola.com. ​