maypole 

my phone grows insect wings & whispers,
"it is time to be a garland." i follow
the scent of flowers to a static-scrubbed field
where everyone was born from the severed head
of another. the maypole arrives;
a thorn in the side. burst from
someone's body. we quickly forget them 
as they're consumed by vine. when i was a boyfriend-
girlfriend we used to go & eat wild. 
purple berries full of bees. his fingers. 
gasoline of the highway by the trail. is nothing
sacred? him picking me up like a jar of pickles.
a door floating in the air. in the creek. 
to be young is to circle like a shark around
the world's axis. there must be something
someone to devour? he bit off one ear 
& the other left me to be a may queen. luna moth.
motherload. milk maiden. coming to the spot
where everyone goes when the good thing
is about to spike. all love is a mound. or, at least,
it has been for me. we are climbing & i am carrying
all the promises in my rib cage like parrots.
finally, i realize the maypole is a spine. not yours
but mine. all the boys & girls & monsters
orbiting like faint moons. gravity tears 
buds from their necks. we kissed as much 
as a day could hold. each press, the spurring on
of another blossom. have you ever seen 
a maypole past the equinox? have you ever stood naked
in the forest? he was there cutting down a tree.
he told me he would not. he couldn't stop himself. 
now, the maypole says, "i am different." 
talking to your own body as if it is 
a grandfather. "good enough. good enough."
to survive may & maypoles. do not tell me
i am in love again. do not tell me 
this is not my skeleton. sky full 
of unanswered texts & headless birds.