Touch does not sit in the veins of a petal,
Does not wilt when the bloom of spring
Withers away. It can’t be pruned,
It does not decompose with the dead and discarded
To become a new whole.
Woman is not a flower. A flower
Is only beautiful for the season. Groomed,
Clipped, arranged, until the water
Turns brown and the pollen turns
Sickly and it’s
Hidden amongst the garbage, ugly.
Woman is a root. What grows from her
May pass but she is there, in the dirt,
Taking hold of the earth, taking hold
Of life to say, “What may pass
Can be regrown.” Touch
Is there, in the roots.
The boy who kissed me
In the courtyard to show
How easy it was
To break me.
The man who pushed me
To the ground outside my bedroom door,
His moon eyes black and sizzling
Like an empty frying…
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