That daisy in the window? That is me,
it is 1950. One daily rotation of the pot, a mere forty-five degrees
atop this turquoise sill.
I do lean back towards it- bubble small gum pop
and nose grease triangles:
distractions to the faint of heart. But I know what I want.
that heat I crave, the tempter of my gain, the lover
who explains.
Curving like a lady, twisting amongst a pole,
those forty-five degrees, creating a tapestry:
while she’s pushing back her cuticles,
I twirl as a curl of lace.
I stare out among the thorns, those
stems protruding machetes like a
hapless guerilla. divide and conquer. divide—
