I poked my head out of the window yesterday, careful,
like a mouse who doesn’t trust a cheese.
Everything was the same as always,
the dirt was grainy and brown and the roaches tickled
on the side of the house like there was nothing
better to do, like there was no place else
I thought of how sometimes when momma’s not around
you tell me stories about things like butterfleas
or the way the moonlight snaked across
the lake on night’s that were made for lovers.
I don’t think I wanna be a lover, but I do wanna
meet a butterflea. Do you think I ever will?
Momma says your stories are just that, stories,
and that they’re nothing to trouble my head about,
but can you keep a secret? I think about them
all the time.
My favorite one is the one about the flower,
the green wormy thing that looks like little
girl’s hair at the end, but with wild colors
that don’t exist anymore. If they really were like
tiny trees, but soft, how did they not get stepped on
all the time? And why would people muck up the Earth so bad
that flowers couldn’t come around anymore, that
they couldn’t poke up at the sun?
And why would bugs crawl in them
when bugs are ugly and flowers
were the prettiest things in the world?
Trees seem kinda nice. Even if only a little light
gets past the dust clouds, couldn’t the trees share it?
Why does there have to be not enough? Do you
think the flowers know we miss them? Momma says
you can’t miss something you never met, but I think
I miss them anyway.