“you must be secret, gentle girl”
but flowers aren’t secret; not bundles of oxlips
and flower de luce, and brazen crown imperial.
you cloth me in bright petals, pink and green and apple red
thin and soft and so delicate.
what if i am not a conveyor of sweet things;
the faded line between your feet and the edge of the stage gets thicker
and my body sinks, sifts closer to the thick earth, velvet seat rotted
and drooping from the weight of tree roots.
i am pierced by rose stems, and my skin melds with the trunk
that holds me close and holds me
i reach for you, gentle girl
with the cooler edges of my innermost thoughts,
shattered moonbeams, broken pieces of straw –
i see the way you look at her and i think, somehow, my prince
is somewhere deep within the crusted soil and you,
my secret keeper, my master of whispered words,
are out on the peppermint sea.
i’ll be your secret, gentle girl. for you, for you, for you.
and i’ll wrap myself in daffodils until they hold more than just pollen.