with a black eye 

on all fours, growing out from beneath 
our grandmother's porch, emerge 
the black-eyed susans in their pleated
skirts & pigtails. they bruise easily.
the play in the tall grass & stain 
their skin green as november. what's green
in november? make up something &
move on. i heard them laughing.
they woke me up again-- yellow is a laughing
color & so is orange unless it's
too dark, then it's a blood color. 
i followed their voices-- i had been hoping 
to find a fresh patch of the flower, 
but instead i found all the grass had become
dried & brown & dead. 
grey clouds screw sprinklers into
the spigot out on the other side of the house
& turn the knob until a steady stream comes
down. i'm looking for the susans with 
the black eyes. who did this to you?
whoever it is we can't just let them 
run around pounding their fists 
into the sockets of young girls
(even if they are just ghost flowers).
i baked chocolate chip cookies-- chewy
& with semi-sweet chips. i stacked them 
still warm on a plate & perched in
the shade hoping the girls would come
over to take one but they just multiply 
with each other-- tossing hopscotch stones--
planting their wounds in the soil to
make more of themselves. i asked my 
mom where babies come from & she said she'd
tell me when i was old enough to have my own.
it's only logical to assume that 
i came from beneath the porch-- a bruise
turned yellow in delight-- in rapture--
bruise turning black in it's on pure-joy.
why are none of them boys but me?
you know why. you can grab anyone's neck
& bouquet snap them-- up to my neck
in the vase. you should cut off the 
bottom of the stem, they'll last longer.
they come back every year no matter
how you treat them. i admire that persistence--
my grandmother never had a porch or
a house. i just made this now for her.
she's wearing a pleated skirt, young &
running in the tall grass. i wash her
knees off with the hose-- the green doesn't
come out. i wade into the lawn--
asking them to take me back-- 
dress me smaller 
& let the insects staircase me--
they run away-- they steal my bruises 
for their own collections.to plant in
night's damp earth when i
fall asleep & can't keep looking. 
all angels are yellow.