The garland devil leaves his daughters to roam sour gardens,
to squeeze perfume across their necks like lemons.
Sisters six mock Split-limes for her craving to lock candles in her lips:
Limes is a blunted thought-machine, a muted philosopher
but her sheets shake with magic,
each master watches his gooseflesh bubble like champagne.
I can rub old wine and apple slime deep into my pores,
But lemons, I shall never wear lemons,
the slur to existence, sliding down god's lungs.
Our den was never a cathedral, sisters six,
your bloodline quivers with a wild sin
bitten from the freedom tree.
The tasteless soil expels the girls who drip,
leaving the garland devil to roam their necks,
wryly tending lemon trees.