Flourishing | poem

At night, the jaw disconnects from my skull
And flies out to join bats in the trees.

(I wonder if you’d like me more as a skeleton, segmented and
Without scent or sense or perspective or all this goddamn hair.)

I think you despise the pink in my cheeks, so
I’ll slice them from my face and trade cypress for pine.

I know you prefer the flourishing hips of an aspen, so
I’ll wrench the stem out from under me and sell it to the trees.

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