You Girls Are
About the same wildflower moon-
lighting as a pistol leaving
holes in the walls. Your
joke is a pink alarm clock
dream about eyelashes
separate and hard. Beautiful
the way you suffer
like a cactus flower. I could keep
saying flower, oh I could
keep saying flour cosmic flower
cosmetic to puddle-drown in a nervy
spout. You girls are totally
convinced: you’re into it, right? Whatever
it is. You girls are having a birthday
an afterparty—don’t you know
that when you beat your piñata, it looks
like a nervous breakdown? You girls
even treat your window
nice, your troll doll brides, your
socks in the air. Well, flowers
well, the family secret. You girls are
girling about yourselves like multiple
choice. You girls laugh off
your masks at summer camp
then come back in the fall surprise
not-dead in the eyes. Come on you’re
no one’s watery ghost but
you girls have hips like low
halos, like jellyfish cups. Their sway
like a sting. It must be good to run
the show like that. You girls are looking
a little fat in the face. I just want you
to look your holiday best. I want you
to look like poinsettias: I want you
to die like poinsettias.