tattygingerpeach

My fire-eating career came to an end

when I could no longer tell

when to spit and when

to swallow.

Last night in Amsterdam,

1,000 tulips burned to death.

I have an alibi. When I walked by

your garden, your hand

grenades were in bloom.

You caught me playing

loves me, loves me

not, metal pins between my teeth.

I forget the difference

between seduction

and arson,

ignition and cognition. I am a girl

with incendiary

vices and you have a filthy never

mind. If you say no, twice,

it’s a four-letter word.

You are so dirty, people have planted

flowers on you: heliotropes. sun-

flowers. You’ll take

anything. Loves me,

loves me not.

I want to bend you over

and whisper: “potting soil,” “fresh

cut.” When you made

the urgent fists of peonies

a proposition, I stole a pair of botanists’

hands. Green. Confident. All thumbs.

I look sharp in garden

shears and it rained spring

all night. 1,000 tulips

burned to death

in Amsterdam.

We didn’t hear the sirens.

All night, you held my alibis

so softly, like taboos

already broken.