(a golden shovel after Kesha)
I slow my hands for the bees in the house, pray but
not too loud. This is a deep breath for the bones I’m
cracking to make a dagger. The lavender’s magic is not
in the flower—it’s the swell of the bruise I love. Now
I wait on the forest floor, in crow feathers, filthy. I guess
at pink never and hold the egg like a death omen, eat it
in the glow of foxfire, throat open. Yesterday I worked
for hours on the slope of the asphalt, dug in and spat out
the rain for the sake of wonder, opened the earth and got
the truth of every word I’ve burned in the whispers here.
And in the sweet, teeth come down, close the red, grab me by
the arm. In this home the silver slicks into veins, running
slow to the roots—violence is the soft touch of stone in my
rosemary heart, the secrets I swallow just to fill my mouth.