Dogwood
I knew the blossoms. I caught
them all. My mother
won’t let me forget this.
But really, what’s so bad about
marking this way?
The tree saying she was this high
the summer she learned
to take and be taken
by what pleased her.
I’ve always imagined using
my teeth in a violent way,
and, speaking of cock, once
my mother told me dogwoods
mist those who pass under.
I don’t have memory
of my dogwood behaving this way.
Hard to remember a time before
sex was rained onto me.
Lepidopterist Seeking Romance
Ever fantasize about playing
dead? Slowly,
I’ll pin each wing,
cherish the obscene
glinting.
