hydrangea  

he puts his nose to my ear
smells the April in me,
the May making purple
pink blue 
i tell him that he's
caught me
get the trow
distrust the science
of brains
my family grown hydrangeas
in our skulls
we eat dirt for the roots
drink water but never too much 
drowned so many 
good flowers that way
water gushing from 
noses water making
mush soil 
count the petals
all afternoon 
assigned female at birth 
assigned fragrance at birth
assigned floral at birth 
we knew grandmom 
was gone when she started
smelling like wet leaves 
blue roots crawling under 
her hands 
i see mine there too
only they're not
as angry yet
he's not the first 
boy to notice
doesn't ask 
just stares 
into my open mouth
admires the garden 
plans a bench behind
my eyes so he can
watch my life unfold
stained glass iris 
he doesn't like
girls which is good 
because i'm not a girl 
which is good because
his trow is covered
in dirt
which is good because
i want him 
to dig
i lower my head like
i'm going to be 
blessed or knighted
my mother told me
that my great great
grandmother planted 
the first hydrangea
i curse her softly
why me
he smells like hot rain
scoops the earth
he loves it
i say 
deeper 
he says 
petals
i say 
ignore them 
he says 
how could i?