He rips the crown from the stem
so that white cream
leaks from the torn neck,
which he dabs and rubs on my wrist
where a bee has just stung.

Beyond the pain
I try to imagine the beauty
beneath my pierced skin,
a garden of signals flickering
like fireflies in trembling branches.

The horizon hangs open
like a mouth with hunger.
The last of the day’s light drools
down on the blue grass.

I thought my self a weed,
a festering declaration,
never asking What ease
can I give the pain of this world?

Now I’ll remember this.
Small gestures.
His thumb circling my skin,
and, under it,
the bright sting singing.