I hold the flower in my palm
it kisses, white lips, to my skin
It winds between my fingers,
growing sturdy, growing thin.
I hold the live thing in my hand
as if it might just float away.
It nibbles on my toes and chin
and drinks in rain, and sleeps in day.
The insects that do pocket deep
between my aging tongue and cheek
Will scuttle over and beneath
But leave the flower be.
My agless eye will roam the vine
without its blooming bold,
The blood that painted first my cheeks
has left the flower's hold
And gladly I will hold my pet
until I come to see
I hold the ugly flower's hand
that's planted over me.
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