black-eyed susans / other plants
your vision blurred
with weeds (buried
in your computer) burning –
you invented new colors,
crying to branches stretched out to you
(the drugs you said you wouldn’t do)
and spelled out (smoke
signals unyielding) they’re of more substance than
me.
it was like you’d pulled every black-eyed
susan planted last spring,
like you’d stolen the color yellow.
i wish i could say
i’d have survived without her
if you’d plucked
the petals sober
and dug into your computer later,
but i don’t know that i can:
lying in bed,
all i could wonder
was whether your hands
were warm or cold
to the touch,
and if they turn rough like mine in the winter
or stay smooth like someone else’s.
(your hands stay smooth like someone else’s)
despite their cupping smoke
to blow in my face.
it seeps into my hair
and the smell
never leaves
me: still yellow.