Art by Chelsea Pentland

in this dream, the council is flesh-free

I wake up somewhere, tired and alone

the lavender tastes quite like a honeybee

slept under pillow, was you of the willow tree

I find the sunken ache that sings inside my bones

in this dream, the council is flesh-free

it teases and teethes as if it were a puppy

I lie half-awake, and when I’m on my own

the lavender stings quite like a honeybee

in lullabies sung to me, they don’t feel glee,

but ask, hungrily: have I told strawberry roan

they are in this dream, where the council is flesh-free?

nights come now with shards of cold tea

in a sweet story in the book I have on loan

the lavender tastes quite like a honeybee

I sip and seep into the veins of somebody;

they remind me that I hate how you have flown

into this dream, where the council is flesh-free

the lavender tastes quite like a honeybee