by Jules Jacob
Gardeners stay your eyes to flowers
hikers, trails walkers, paths.
Let insects have my leaves,
yellow-rumped warblers my berries.
I cling to those temptation woos
closer I will tendril fingers
brush rushinol between breasts
and lips, your oiled hands forever
touching. Pustules, inflammation
pain, red lines teachers I gift
after you’re gone—what do you
give me? A rise in carbon
an increase in size and potency,
my agents distributing greenhouse-
gassed seeds. Burn me,
I’ll blow you a reminder.