oh opium bud–my lips are fat with your poison
fat with your skin pressing
the pressing of skin is a precious thing
and so are your soiling words hushed
against my neck
against my neck I use my breasts to brace
for work
for efficiency
they hold more than milk
you leak nightshade all over my sheets
all over my skin the muscle
of your hands the bend of my muscle
under your hands fingers like oleander
petals pressing
and I am sleep love drunk
rolled in flannel
the fire escape moon silhouettes
on my thighs on my thighs
on this skin love like luck
could be a myth and me
this is my poisonous flower poem. I’ve memorized it for recitation.