by Jared Pearce

Brushing other leaves for
your dark web, lush
where the peat-soil harbors
the shore of the sky,

I stroke the soft angles
of your faces down
to your mystery, your pink
limbs heavy wet.

Penetrating your secret
bed, when your tongue
slips from between earth’s
brain, I can almost hear

Your ecstatic cry. Forget
your crushed eggs of sleeping
children; whole you reach
again an orbit, your head aflame.

Why not despair, dandelion,
removed from your clutch
of earth, licked by the sun’s
scorching tongue, you will
turn your bruised head inside
out to birth your children—
what hope have they to get
some secure situation—beyond
your own death. In this world,
dandelion, how can you hope?

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