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, soI’ll wrench the stem out from under me and sell it to the trees.