the flowers don’t grow as much
as they used to
during the yellow junes when her father
picked her up and spun the world
around them
so that it was all blurry lights
and a laugh
sort of like a freed bird

claws have been dragged through the dirt
and the field has been ravaged
and she doesn’t know why anyone bothers
sticking around it

she fruit she picks
from the curved, twisted tree
and the stout, shiny shrub
are not as sweet
like when the juice spilled over the boy’s wrist
as his thumb and forefinger pressed
the delicious ****** flesh against her lips

now it is bitter, and tough
and hard
if she finds one that is sweet
it is poisoned
and it burns her alive

the only land left is inside her
so she swallows all of the pink seeds
and waits for them
they bloom in her stomach
they ****** their roots into her heart

the flowers come back, in the end
unfurling above a scuffed brown sky