Georgina Bambi SS7 final draft

7 Jul

The flowers that feed me

 

Giant wildflower stems and stalks

tilt towards the sun, I lay underneath

them as their lips purse and drink up.

 

Their silken petals cup like tongues to

speak every piece of good in me.

No burrs in linen, or any soft thing.

 

They let their light strain through,

quivering, skin pink and orange

it ballets over my contours,

 

and runs into my pours like

tequila. I am Bright, sticky,

and smart because of this.

 

Their presence is timeless.

They save the rain for when I’m dry,

warmed and clean to heal,

 

it’s there to flood out the scratching

grains and knotweed of doubt,

when it matters, and when it doesn’t.

 

For everything, I would purl with

barbed wire stiches to drape purple

on their soiley doorstep,

 

because purple is luck,

and they are the salt, and may

money and love and peace and family

 

and together and us and time

 be always at their feet.

But never would they ask.

 

I’m not afraid to see them when

I’m hardly awake, because

their roots lie in sacred soil,

 

though, the bees around them will

always dance in figures Of 8.

But I’ll never need to leave, because

 

the best Pollen is here. I’m not alone

because the sun doesn’t feed me,

It’s the flowers that do.  

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