Hick Poetry Classic: "The Wallpaper Insists"

Flowers
growing out
of
flowers
?
That wallpaper
is a goddamn
liar.
That wallpaper’s
never
seen
how a real garden
works.
The curtains
are pulled
together
and kissing
I imagine
and still
those distant
fireworks
paint
in
Reds
Reds
Reds
across her body
throwing shadows
of
crucifixes.
Pyrotechnics
are so
sanctimonious
these days.
or
perhaps
it could be
The end
End.
END.
of the world
at my
window sill
and still
and still
there’s nothing
on
TV
And she?
She’s
as smooth
as
I don’t know
a pint of
cream
a glass of
buttermilk.
I could
dream
my nights
trying to
write
love letters
to the blood
running through
her vines
and the ancient
civilizations
of bacteria
in the clefts
of her flesh.
I wish
my pen
was a microscope
and a scalpel.
Yes.

“In a sense,”
She once told me
“innocence
is like
being Proud
of not knowing
how to
read.”
How much
of her innocence
has she sold
to my twins
and how much
of herself
indeed
?