I have a vision of you
eating a bouquet of
peach blossoms
in a bright garden,
hunched over a
wrought iron table
your mouth devouring
the delicate blush petals
your whiskers piercing
the skin of velvety folds
your large uncouth hands
sawing away at the tough
stems with a plastic knife
and fork that dimple the
Styrofoam plate underneath
you chewing carefully
to keep the sharp prickly
thistles from scratching
your throat while
black burrs cling
between your teeth
you drowning despite your
cautionary shallow swallows
your bright breath
smelling always
of my nectar
now that you’ve
ingested the
garden of me
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