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Two Poems



Your body springs back against me like a fairy moss lawn,

guiding me to green.

When I ask you what I should do with my life 

you tell me to be heard, to be seen, to make the fall.

I try my best

to grow – instantaneous and rushing – through your life,

to curl against the golden spirals of your hips,

to seed close to your leaves,

to arch out, unfurling, under your fingers.


I like it when a pansy's dangerous.

When Marsha threw her brick I imagine she did so with

flowers crowned around her, the scent of peaches burning.

Sometimes Daphne's juice is worth the taste and 

sometimes cherry pits are kept aside for the mouths of those 

who would speak out against us.


Imagine celebrating a nettle sting in bed, the irritant felt

by the girl you were told you should never love.

Imagine loving her more because of the danger,

imagine holding her hand so tightly in the street as you point out 

dandelion, lavender, sycamore.

Imagine coming home to the hot capsaicin welts from hemp ropes.

Imagine knowing it will hurt in new ways all the time 

until we all save bitter almonds for vanilla essence scolds 

who tell us a fruit must always be sweet.


You don’t have to like sour grapes or poison gardens 

but you’re not the ones under monkshood 

looking for tartness, looking for honey, looking for spice.

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