instead of weeds, call them circular stains of light.

A derivative of French or lion’s tooth, they are often collected and thrown away.

There was that time in the springtime while others soaked each other with water guns and I gathered as many dandelions as I could carry, and gave them all to her. Called them a bouquet of shine. When she kissed my cheek, her spit burned a hole into my lips and I dripped a nervous waterfall. I said to her: They close at night. Kind of like a blink that forgets what to do. 

She was used to roses or carnations and fell in love with the way I gave unwanted things like weeds and skin a chance.

Recently, she called me up. I could smell the milky latex on her breath from all those times I cracked the stems open out of anger. She told me she missed my weeds and wondered if I could love her again.

Sometimes time passes in a way that we can never go back. Then, we notice that dandelion amidst the rocks and stubbled grass. This one is white and frazzled like furry static. It reminds us that wishes never outgrow us. And love is just one step away. Or pluck of green from ground.

romantique et trempé

Where does it begin? What leads us to desire something such as a direct stare or pressed fingers against small curve in lower back. What causes us to expose our ribcage to the ones who give us flowers or cupcakes or buttered bruises.

Communion is cannibalism (Nathalie Stephens) 

This is a rebirth. This kiss cleans out last year. And (their) touch of verbs against (my) nouns rebirths (my) solitude into springtime roots.

This unsleeping noiseless mouthing. This fanaticism desperate unbelieving. This two fingers sewn together tearing. (Stephens)

Pain is everywhere and it circles like napping dandelions blown up from toothless exhale. It is instrumental, strung up and stung by                                    by    swatted fingernails.

Your language gives me order. It says nothing of la douleur. (Stephens)

Oh agony of hips     weeds of gender pulled out and suddenly we are Picasso drips     we are gargantuous grips of desire. We are one and nothing and bits of what we once were and what we can be and what we hate and what and what.

And my thigh still grows a city. And you will not name it. (Stephens)