You know, I am not going to press this into your forehead like a stamp
the cool black letters going in and down as the stamp firmly
finalizes
the identification of you
as you.
I will not spin you to the mirror, hair dresser style
to see the final version
after society has had its way with you
taking off your dread locks
and replacing them
with nice gold curls.
No, I will let you breathe a bit
down by the sunflowers
and the tractor moon
radishes in hand as you verify
that the garden has the fruits
of all you've planted
and if you need to weed it
well then there you go
Mother Nature has no rules
and I'd hate to think you'd get out a ruler
to deny her the only inch
she really has
of thick black dirt.
No, that black dirt could make a pretty stamp
but I won't do it
Too many witches have already been burned,
too many nooses filled with people who felt
the eyes of neighbors boring in on them like nails
this...imagined (and real?) ostracizing
based on the octagons
in the bottom of the well
We pull up human life
with our own ropes
these cords
they do not break
but crumble
in the hand
like a chunk of dirt
that is tough as a rock
then you break it down
and kick it on the sidewalk
because earth is just spinning around
and you need to go to the eye doctor
if you can't see life
from someone else's point of view.