I find euphoria in a bruise.
Miniature peonies budding in all directions.
You fight the urge to pluck them right out of me.
I fight the impulse to hang them over my windowsill, so everyone can admire your thoughtful handiwork.
You stroke my throat so fondly, and a dozen more flowers grow behind your pointed thumbs.
My limbs are a garden.
You discipline my Eden.
I am in heaven.
The apples of my cheeks are dusted pink with longing.
You whisper beside my ego how I am the “apple of your eye” and savor the orchard of my inner thighs.
A bushel of teeth are carried away in my skin and processing down my legs.
This funeral is adorned with twenty-four bouquets.
Peonies, dying in all directions.