I notice things that the Gods don’t
want me to and for that I am embarrassed.
You have a wrinkle under your
eye that reaches inside to your brain
and coils down your nervous system
to your cherry painted toenails.
You are sensitive and walk with a pain
as old as hands and bent as an aborted fetus.
Breathe my lavender kiss, my lupine nectar
The monarchs in your eyes are sunbathing
Your wrist are budding peonies blossoms
but that damn wrinkle tells of heartache and death.
Stand still and I’ll cut it off, my little sister.