When I was little
and still held
fondness toward outside play,
where tree climbing
meant speaking
with the woodpecker’s
holes and making
wrinkled tree flesh

into a lover’s torso
and pressing hands
against viscous trails of golden blood,
I ate azaleas with my older brother.

We ruthlessly snatched the flowers
from their branches,
like tearing legs
off writhing toads.

We stole the sweet nectar
into our mouths as if
to drug ourselves
into the state of Gods.

Petals were torn apart,
inspecting their miniature pink cheetah spots,
and mashed beneath our feet into a dirty paste
of pink and brown.

We stuck the bottoms
of the stamens
into our mouths,
pretending that they were

toothpicks.and as pollen
peppered our upper lips
and cheeks,
we seduced the monarchs.