I once knew a Dandelion:
she knew strange stories
and wore large sweaters
—too big for her frame,
that overcame her bones,
and hid her petals from the world.
I often found her hunched over the bowl
full of smoke and mirrors,
for her skin told her lies about herself—
never admitted her bones were falling apart,
or that she was flushing away her veins,
weakening her heart
until all her seeds and wishes and pappus were gone.