i taught my body to bloom in the larkspurs
from the back seat of an Oldsmobile;
milk and honey through the floor

what good is a seat belt?
lock me into the cushion in the back seat--
lay that body down like the corpse 
of another martyr refusing to decompose--
i pull milk and honey 
from a hipbone and pretend it isn't blood--
you say i smell like flowers
but it wasn't boys who taught me
how to open my mouth like a larkspur--
you say you'd pull me apart one slice
at a time
your clementine artist--
hips bound by roses-- 
prayed at this window-- this bulb--
what will 
you call me savior for? 
call me benediction
in the form of an open window-- 
write your hands in breath on the glass--
i'm peeling open the tulips before
they're supposed to bloom-- pulling
free the sun-burn faces of the daffodils--
push me bulb and root and nest
of my own hair-- planted grass seeds
in my legs so i wouldn't have
to tell you why i don't shave anymore-- 
this is the place i grew one 
tight fist of pressed petal between my legs--
i was the valley and the abyss--
a kiss from the forehead of a mountain 
we only had the courage to shave the tress--
yes we saved the thorns--
i lay in the back seat of the Oldsmobile--
find myself a rapture of rust-spring 
and cushion-- a mouth full of foam
trying to taste dew through the upholstery--
no it wasn't a boy who pressed down on
me to teach me how to break through
the floor of the car--
my petals eat metal and bone--
i call my vagina a larkspur and a 
car door and a jar full of raspberry jam--
call her a window and a martyr and 
an unbuckled seat belt waiting for a red light--
this seat belt was to keep you from
taking me back inside where
i can't take my whole body into 
the bruise of a violet grasp--
we tore through the floor of the car
to make ourselves a body here
painted on the 
yellow stripes of a road only leading
towards milk and honey--
i became a sculpture
from my thumbs-- 
call my body citrus and throw 
the skin out the window-- 
it wasn't boys who unpeeled me like
a tangerine-- it was a
backseat stained in cigarettes 
and my own blood
turned sweet as milk
and honey.