The sunflower is drunk. Fork stuck
In the soil, like roots. It holds the
Skinny ******* in place. How tall
Would you be, if your spine did not

Droop over itself? Did your mother not
Tell you to hold your shoulders up straight?

Still you have scared me since infancy.
Your lanky demeanour, God’s scarecrow.
Upright in the field or against my Grandfather’s
Brick wall. Creeping up in the days.

You grow.

Oh, Cyclops! Your eye it scours
Me. Fixes me with a Martian stare,
Orwellian and deprived, though
Decorated with a halo. Your flower

A startling diagram of creation.
The big bang, black pupil, dark heat
And brown to flames, fans and galaxies.
My heartbeat is a speck somewhere,

I know it.

Sunflower, the awkward arbiter. The
Unknowable in your eye, always watching
But never watched. Your centre burnt like
Charcoal, inescapable void. Don’t take me.

Please, don’t swallow me.