Poppy seeds scatter across my keyboard.
Chattering songbirds pick them,
as if planted;
as if they prayed for this black mana.
I garde apples in my car, beside the
mallet my mother gave me for self defense,
for another chance at being her handy
man. Her expert supplier, unable to
differentiate rage from femininity. Unable
to dissociate sticks of arrows from
fragility. Opium & arsenic & lilac wine:
Embalming embers of passion, closed thighs
wrapped in twine. Take a pin-up of
my spine on full display; this,
the strongest pronoun
I can give to the world
is the weakest I can give
to my lover.
You did not leave me unprepared,
mother. You did not strangle me
with your tears. I can still breathe
the window air.
Oviparous obligations be damned
When the flock vanished
there were no seeds left.
In their places; the faintest
& an echo of wings
on my lips.