12:02 am / Tuesday, Sept. 04, 2007
Queen Anne’s Lace smells like midnight dirt
The jar where I put them is yellow with mold
And the rust from our well turned the virgin petals orange.
I could almost mistake them for Black-eyed Susans.
In the summer we lay in fields of gold flowers
The pollen dusting our bodies: yellow sugar on our French toast skin.
When the sun burned your eyes, I led you inside
But the salt in your tears stung when you cried.
When night falls across our porch
And the thunderstorms roll in
Bring a quilt out and cradle like peanut shells on the back stoop
Thunder cracks the sky like teacups
Then you came in today with your fist full of flowers
My heart, at high speed, exhausted me
Then the grooves in your fingerprints buffed out my skin
And I began to breathe again.
Smell the dirt on your shirt
Smell the dirt on your hands
Taste your bitter reply
Make you sweet with my skin
Cow flesh on a milky breast
We reflect the sunlight we receive.
When the evening rolls by
The sky glows with pin prick lights
We cover in cream and our bodies
Smell like dust and sweat
How do our lips taste so sweet?
So sweet, like your summertime allergies
And in spite of the drought--
Your skin tastes like freshly cut grass