Dandelion, you are the slut
of flowers. Spread your seed
like a wanton, impregnate soles,
ride coat hems on gusts of wind.
You give up everything to
a child’s leather shoe,
a squirrel’s tail, anything
that gives you attention.
You are the old
woman of trees.
Perfume like aged cheddar, you are
an acquired taste. A full bust
and trunk eighty-three rings wide,
your bones delicate, skin as creamy
as the first bloom.
You shake gaunt fingers at dandelion,
show her there’s lust in keeping your leaves.
You are candy of the plants.
Sweet bursts of white, red on the tongues
of cows, a child’s leather shoe.
The honeybee is your butter knife,
spreads your nectar like raspberry jam
on bread warm from the oven.
You envy the dandelion, swarm its legs
when the gardener picks dandelion
greens for dinner, she’ll think of you.