by A.M.C. Roa
I am aware my mouth can be dirty
I have shrunk a couple of times from the stench and soil
Till I curse,
I shall never speak again for longer than one measured breath at a time
Lest I shall have outspoken my welcome.
I fear unwittingly loosing thorns
Upon this expanse and the next,
Once folds of satin if not for my doing,
Like the far reaching plains of your open palm.
I am no flower, but
With you —
I am always wishing I sprung,
Spitting cherubs through dirt
And all of how they must smell if they do.
Always tried to unfold these lips the way a rose would its petals,
The kind of glisten and red you wanted to touch,
But feared to disturb,
At the same time
I want for nothing more than to be your type of lovely.
Again and again,
Even as I wound,
The only hands that have tended to my blooming
If not tirelessly,
(See, I prick you now.)
I map out your hand and could not determine
Which ones are latitudes or longitudes,
And merely scars of my doing
But you tend to my blooming,
As you always do.
Only because it is tirelessly,