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.

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Jazz Hands


This poem is part of a series titled identity.

The first piece in the series is Strip.’

The second piece is Strut(Walks).’

This is the third piece.

The fourth and final piece is Floral Floundering.’

This is a stock image.
Usually my wrists hang limp,like my bones are broken–

broken like a twig snapped in half,

the leaves on the other end

being starved of their nutrition;

they are the branches of the weeping willow,

stooping low to bend

in the presence of the almighty Sun.

But take a second to hear the

rhythm of my footsteps,

feel them tap-tap-tap along.

My world is jiving, honey,

and so are my hands-

they snap up like whack-a-moles

(Oh! You can try to whack me down)

and flash like neon lights:

come watch me!

They send electric sensations

off the tips of my fingers,

be safe lest you should get electrified-

watch these jazz hands, honey,

watch them.