Not to Be Confused with “Poem”

            As the Pome:
I could ask my petaled voice to cup its first and last notes against the hive’s collapse.

            As the Pome:
I could ask my scent to bud in the noses of passersby, could get a heart or two leaping for the season
            inside me.

            As the Pome:
I could ask the strange hands of the wind to play my pale pink beautiful all afternoon.

            As the Pome:
I could ask the kingdom of my blooming to ripen around a small number of promises called
            tomorrow.

            As the Pome:
I could ask my hanging on to look like your questions between prayer and faith.

            As the Pome:
I could ask you kindly not to salivate at the miracle I have yet to finish.

            As the Pome:
I could ask each hard thing beneath me to make the fall of my shine seem insufferable.

            As the Pome:
I could ask the knowledge my body is to taste like you testing your fate.

            As the Pome:
I could ask my plummet through your thinking to rename what you believe has held this world
            together.

            As the Pome:
I could ask safely to be of your eye now, having survived every green reason to wait.

            As the Pome:
I could ask the arrow that takes me off a steadied brow to fill this place with wonder.

            As the Pome:
I could ask my browning flesh to set the wild air humming for rot.

            As the Pome:
I could ask my before and after images to barely speak the same desire.