Wilt

Plant the public’s view

in a garden

where color peeks through the foliage,

where men stop and smell the roses,

the hemlocks,

the long locks.

Where I sit

buried by the roots of my scalp,

the veins to my heart.

I shear the hair at the nape,

and now I’m soiled.

‘Why won’t you let it grow?

Tend to it like the rest?

Satisfy my eye?’

I am not

your sweet pea,

your yellow rose,

your summer daisy.

I am

the sagebrush in the sea,

the tangled vine.

I won’t arrange,

won’t succumb,

won’t wilt.

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