jayivan

To pick a flower—
pinch the the stalk
between thumbnail and fingertip,
catch the freed bud in palm,
and place in glass vase,
on dinner table
or den table
or bed stand—
a piece of beauty all your own
an innocent thievery.

But you are not innocent,
and I cannot forgive you.

You do not pick flowers.
You rip the garden by its root
and salt the earth with your evil eye;
you dispose of flowers in trash cans
and toss rendered grease on top,
and return to your underground lair
to sweep and clean and scour the filth from the outside world seeped in,

never clean since it was never dirty.

I would have compassion for you,
but it is my passion you have gutted:
sweep all you will—

the stains of innards splain
are all you left me as remains.