You bear a cross on your stomach
and I make no sense.
A simpering, whimpering child I am.
Your voice is soft
as you call everyone an idiot.
You don’t have many friends,
and you’re OK with it.
This is a desert.
I hold my hand out to mayflies,
I snub my nose at men in Lamborghinis.
My priorities, they say,
are upside down.
No, I don’t want to buy a planet,
I just want to move freely around it,
I want to say hello to you from time to time.
I won’t ask you for a blanket.
I think I can take the cold now –
A blessing after all this heat,
it drives the cockroaches away.
And snakes? – Oh, they’re my friends.
The most perfect sheep
is the one in the box.
With holes to breathe,
it’s safe forever,
A constant promise.
“What are you giggling about?” you say.
I’m just celebrating.
The rose lives.