Floral Floundering

This poem is part of a series titled identity. 

The first piece in the series is Strip.’ 

The second piece is Strut(Walks).’

The third piece is Jazz Hands.’

This the fourth and final piece.

I hope one day to hold a rose and kiss it,

to kiss the thorns on its stem and cut my lips- blood

tastes good.
I wear roses on my body-

I wear roses to hide my insolent hips from swaying too wide;
I adorn my long, droopy arms with sunflowers and yellow 

if my blood isn’t warm enough at least its flowers are;
My back is laced with lilies and jasmine-

its scent masks the trace of fear that blows 

like a wanton wind;
My chest is the mantle to the tulips that rise into my throat, 

stifling thought, stifling expression, 

isn’t it beautiful to look at?

I wear pink on most days, brightness attracts attention– is that what I crave? 

The world is looking for something to make blue every day– is that what I’m asking for?

Well I’m no florist but my body can grow pretty things quite well.



This poem is part of a series titled identity.

The first piece in the series is Strip.’

This is the second piece.

The third piece is Jazz Hands.’

The fourth and final piece is Floral Floundering.’

This is a stock image.
Loose cobblestones rattle under my padded feet:

Cobblestones made of fear, hope and flimsy beliefs.

Eyes drawn to each other are forced apart on empty

Streets- why do we shy away like brides meeting their

Thieves? Ruefully toes curl up in their moist niche,

Lapping up the clouds in their suffocating cotton clothing:

They curl in tandem with my wobbling cherry knees,

Searching their way through other’s sure-footed feet.

Marking lines with my heels, my pivoting rotor hips

Twinkle and wink at passing trees and ask for things

They know they can’t receive: so they blend into

The billowing wind, billowing cloth, billowing skin-

Hidden under a jumble of garments, and stubbornly

Plant their buttocks into the wind and don’t budge

From their silent seats, pulled along on whisper-leashes.