This is my second workshop poem, written in response to an ill-informed poem about tattoos.
[Untitled]
The pen pierced into my soil, planting
her favorite flower.
“African Violets,”
I demanded.
They tried to sell me just a rose.
My blood pooled upon the petals; these
flowers had no thorns. The air
filled with bees.
Stingers. Buzzing
down into my bones.
When the flowers fully blossomed,
fruits of his labor meticulously
drawn: She criticized my choices
but kissed me,
sweetly,
for the blooms.
No comments:
Post a Comment