shr_4.1

Emily Rose Cole
This is my body
Early June. I unspool yellow tongues that carry
the scent of sunlight through your backyard.
I watch you crush dandelions under your pink
Nikes, twist the creamy bells of buttercups
under your baby-soft chin, separate daisies’
long lashes from their gaping, golden eyes.
To you, we’re only weeds. I know what will become
of me when you approach, pluck me up, roll
my body between your thumb and forefinger.
You’ll gnash me open, draw the long thread of spine
through my fluted center. Come. I offer you the honey
of my blood like a sacrament: Child, take, drink.
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