#sunflowerfield
There is a sunflower field
in Dixon. I’ve never been,
but I used to own a dress
the color of red plums and milk.
I tore it dancing in the orchard
that October forgot to map.
This is about lines, but mostly about what humans
say about sunflowers, about being golden inside
& we keep singing light & we keep saying no & seek.
& there is this bit about freedom
& the edge of the world being not edged
but centered close
& sometimes even in the poems we are strayed.
I should have kept the torn
dress for the daughter I will have,
but I can’t stop thinking about florets
& if they are rust
or luster or maybe like that skin
between my knees that keeps shedding—
Space any space begs, move
slower, bite softer, kiss
less of me.
I thought love was like this
& flesh was a word you learn
in girlhood. I thought I want familiar
& wild & blue-eyed & here, I am dreamscape —
my feet are healed
& I am turning in a fog film
of flowers. I get to kiss every boy
I’ve ever lust if just for a sap minute,
only soon they are tearing my dress
off & there is plum juice
on my shoulder blades & the law of gravity
is the law of wanting; there is this center
of pollen & it keeps pulling us,
bending earth to grain.
& its not about reflection or maybe it is
but backwards; the sky is warm rust orange
& moonbeams green & all these boys
are in the stars & I am left with one
I barely know but want to turn to comet dust.
His name changes when he touches me,
& this fog is rain we’ve danced with before
& we are drinking on a cloud—a glass
atrium filled with glass bottles blue
like hope & light is seeping
& pollen is longing & I say
earth dream earth, and his refrain is flesh flesh flesh
meaning whole meaning, this is our home &
our bath tub is oil & stem, meaning
kiss more of me. Blow me to powder,
pulp me to sun-milk, leave me lineless.