the white lilies born from the ground are for me
(i hope and think and feel so) and i can carry their leaves
on my back—the gusts can wander over my bones
tricking over their stems, my spine and the flowers’
are one, breaking breaking from bending too far—my burden comes
from bearing such sweetness.
there’s a garden on my shoulders: sprouts erecting
and rising like cranes, the stringy matter torn
from growing plant flesh by prying fingers, unjust hands and anomalous motions
that pick and pluck the green until it fades
to white.
my vertebrae are steep, curling under the resting flowers
with my back arched forward over my ribs: the stands for tomato vines
transformed amorously to hold a tasteless enigma for the eyes—
the flesh ‘round my bones cannot hold up to ripe tomato vines
and the fruits are seedless, unable to drop down to the earth
and spread their lovlies across the soil: our mouths will instead
be filled with the bitterness of lilly stems, moist from the summer heat
dripping off of my back and down to the ground,
feeding the only sweetness the earth can bear now
(like my arching breaking back).
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