Don’t rejoice
about,
from where
I left the womb.
celebrate my mouth,
my essence,
the thing that won’t rot.
I don’t have the luxury
of wilting
for a photo.
Do I look good in communion?
tilted head?
dripping rose?
Yell lurid for the San Gabriel Valley!
Let the putrid of these hills,
envelop.
Let the wildflowers bud from your upper lip,
and lick.
