The Violets Have a Back-up Plan
Purple-thief-of-the-gospels adorn the road
the blood-fed ranch.
and their allies.
American Lady, Painted Lady, West Coast Lady.
He asked you to decorate hell and
you fell for it. Viola of the stream, the bog,
Forgiveness comes when I say it does,
and with a sever.
Three Types of Mimicry
I pictured butterflies each time the boy was hurting me.
I say boy, though he was north of forty. I say hurt, because for years
I spoke in pretty code. There are no butterflies on Mars,
and here on earth, Mohavea
Confertiflora dupes the bees because she has to—
as when I told the boy he made me come
because the other path was frozen lakes and crosshairs.
What color are my eyes? I asked his back
a dense arithmetic of bramble, fear and birdsong.