Peonies

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.