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.