and I bend.

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—