tr-igg-ere-d

smudged thumb print on the second last petal

imprint of a feeling that hungered

snap back with the stinging as the red shows

a wounded flower so pretty in its pose

still pretty with only one hope left

clinging to the base of its blossom with cloying grandeur

at least it thinks

at least it continues to define the whole

apart from the stem

the others sigh green

why always this one

always the last one born

so pretty can’t you see

its edges catch reflecting raindrops

with swirling smiles from the sun

moon

and stars

it could command the galaxies this one

leaving four fingered prints on their lenses

making them so giddy they’d spill their soil

exposing all routes

there would be truth in that

a way at the very least

to make its detachment

seem

alright

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