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.
Copyright © 2024 by Geffrey Davis. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 25, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.