Forget About the Roses Birthday Girl

It’s in a dream,
And as the bushes turn and tremble,
I somehow think I see you in them,
With eyes like tiny catastrophic seeds,
Felled like mighty acorns,
That crackle when they land,
From the soaring boughs,
That lick sunlight like lazy walrus do,
Lapping at icicles and frozen sea.

I remember your birthday,
How we celebrated in a surprise ride,
Taking us hours out of our hometown,
Where I worked indignantly,
And you spent hours on a volunteer hotline,
Then back into each others lives,
Plotting with the insistence of a kidnapper.

I remember that ride,
Because we almost didn’t take it,
Because I sat up all night thinking about a stupid moment,

And then we would fornicate,
Under sharp thistles and weeds,
That excrete a sticky milk,
I can barely discern from my own,
In a mess of transgression,
And tangy fluids.

And back on the road again,
Your face flushed with arousal,
Your steps quiver until we get to plush seats,
Hair a mess of outside things,
The tang of dirt alights our shoulders,
The pinch of regret,
We are smiling like we did as children.

And the bushes turn again,
In a blur,
But the eyes behind them aren’t yours,
Because yours are in your skull,
Pressed behind lids as we thrust,
Pushing into each other until that moment,
When I stopped to see what flitted behind the shrubs,
And never returned again.

I would drive you home,
I would lend you kisses to help you to sleep,
I would talk you out of cutting your skin,
Or drinking too much of your medicine,
One feels unordinarily guilty,
For wanting to let you do it,
Because of your filthy motives,
And another girlish stupid moment,
That tears me again into the undergrowth.

It’s too much to handle,
Your abrasive smiles,
And canted cheekbones,
That jut up to me as to say,
Leave me Johny; in my peacelessness,
You didn’t want it anymore,
It was an embarrassing responsibility,
When you had suffering to do,
And eventually I avoided your eyes,
And watched the ferns rustle instead.