Dandelion

And so it begins:

When we meet, the summer burns,

the air is sweet with wilt, and,

he looks at me like he might eat me:

I love him for it.

In a week my mirror is in the attic, and

Tucked below the pucker of my collarbone is a scroll:

Unravel it, and,

Note: a map of my memory. The park bench, were it smells of something girlish, something to savor, sugar in my teeth, and,

here are the pretty little things i concern myself with:

Dandelions are my favorite fruit;

we pick them and I bring them home, drown them in a plastic water bottle,

Note: in a day they will smell stale and it is the sweetest thing i have ever heard of

Note: there is something about it not quite alive, but delicious all the same.

Note: he doesn’t like the perfume in the pink bottle,

Note: he is only free after 10, leave your window open,

Note: don’t drink too much, it’s a turn off,

Note: nicknames are for kids.

Note: in a week my mirror is back in my bedroom, sitting proud, my body is in my mind, sitting supple,

Note: just below my ankle is a tattoo of sorts, of a dandelion, of rot.

Note: there is something beautiful about rotting.

He’s still here when Autumn smiles, eyes crinkling into paper cranes,

And, he pays less attention, i wait and want, and,

He loves me for it.

Note: in a week my mirror lives in my flesh, my body is sugar & burnt& hard & sweet, and, there is something about it not quite alive, but, delicious all the same.

by MIRA WARD