You take me for a mountain
when I offer a flower, blossoming
bone-white in dark earth.
I give myself away
egg by petaled egg.
Never assume a heart.
What holds me together?
The ribbed parchment of a poem
not yet written, a torso
not yet rubbed. If you come early,
you’ll peel the thickest cloves,
but all of them tell lies.
Inside, sheathed in muslin,
those baby crescent moons
release my sweetest stink.
I’ll stick to you for days if you love me,
I’ll skulk under your fingernails,
you’ll know me from your own pores.
It’s the dense, ugly ones bellied in dirt,
skin crinkling like dry breath,
who savage life for all it’s worth,
make love with the sizzle and sweat
of those who wait a lifetime
to be opened.
