perhaps you have bewitched me
with your promise of violets
in the middle of February
when there isn’t a single living ecosystem to be found
anywhere but inside of us,
but I have been roving the black ice
in thick socks and high boots,
my dead brother’s sweatshirt and the story
robed in stifled violence and
pride for a job well done
from the other clever orphans
seeking solace in intemperate nights
and bare, blue chest;
iced & they offer me fresh fingers,
long necks to lick
depending on the grace,
sudden cries to smother
with my unshaven underarm.
we play gentle radicals
with our leg hair and pixie cuts
and never waste our bleached teeth
on anything less than an audience if it’s a
protest we are performing.
we make sure we are seen, heard, have signs and
wallow with perfect timing.
swap books, scarves,
antidotes for too much silence.
they give me twenty five excuses
they don’t believe in flowers
or permanent lovers.
will you still lick my wounds if I
taste like someone else’s mother?