I am not your mother

I wish I was the type
to gasp at a sex scene
you think I’m a prude
because of my oatmeal sweater but
I am a pirate with urges
I run shirtless through the streets
my chest white as a dinner plate
to teach this city a lesson
I am a rabbit
hungry for another rabbit
you want to boss me around alright
give me a desk
you can play the principal
I’ll be the pissed-off teacher
for the record I do love you but
I tied your underwear
to a helium balloon
goodbye

History of the Piss Flowers

At night I roll this marble around–
watch the trail it leaves
in the carpet.
I know why the oyster
keeps its mouth shut: it remembers
a time before thirst.

See how I raced towards you
with rare seeds in my pockets,
how I wrapped my life
in pink,
the back of your throat.

See how I’ve drawn
the sky a pool of black. I remember
the ancient cats,
the ancient gardens,
what we did to the flowers,
how we made ourselves clean,
like apples
without seeds,
narcotic.