So far in summer and pleasantly dirty skin.

So far I've been born 20 times 
even though I'm 19-- because my real
birthday doesn't have a date--
I was born each time June
took off her black-lace wire bra
and hung it on the arm of the sofa--
Put up her street-soil dusted feet--
Sprawled herself out for the heat
to make her pours into
gaping mouths of fog-- So far
the soybeans and swash of the corn
haven taken to
lighting cigars in their pollen to let
the foxes know that I am alive
again. That June has decided
to unfold into time warp
humidity that blurs us all
into slow nostalgia-- like 
ticks and honeysuckle--
 I do not rise from a pile of
ash like a phoenix but from the
wrinkled belly of a mulberry tree
who knows each summer I'll be a different
kind of wildflower-- professing love
to boys who never even I was barely 
ever a girl-- a fairy-- a nymph--
I've been a born a lover and a queen
and a grave digger. I've been 
born an old woman in a paisley straw hat
with a weed garden and 
thankless feral cat children
eating the butterflies--
Born uncut grass and shorts always 
too short for me legs-- I've been
a park water fountain for the pigeon
boys who folded their wings 
from Twix wrappers.
So far the only thing the same is
the summer and pleasantly dirty skin
a vein of curbs and park benches--
the dead skin of a snakes and
a menagerie pix stick dust.
So far I have loved no one more
than June-- still laying on the couch
and wearing mulberries for earrings.