My flower
you old rascal
you stole my flower
it’s my virginity I speak of
the kind that circumcised confident Caucasian men
wouldn’t understand
you stole my flower
you old nimbus
you rained over my parade
made me into an adult
before my time
I was 19 and it was summer in my dorm
but my flower was
still barely a bud
the blossom wasn’t appreciated
please don’t mistake this to be a love-letter
please don’t think I care for your mistakes
there is an apple that grew in a garden once
and two bumbling idiots ate it whole
so we are all screwed
to feel forever this way
trembling at the thighs
a man’s touch, a woman’s breath,
a soft thigh, an impertinent brush,
what glories have we achieved
fornicating like rabbits
except to make slightly less
indecent copies of us
you old bastard
you stole my flower
and with it, the innocence of a generation
they were your bite marks
on the back of my neck
like a feral cat’s gnawing rage
you bit and spread the infection
I moaned and did partake
but the flower now rests
in a grave somewhere
of my childhood, my adolescence
and my unfinished papers
and pimple ridden friends
you old goat
there will be blossom again
in the winter this time
my dorm will offer you a quilt
and a cup of coffee
and I will lead the monster yet again
right into my bed
for some more regret
and another stupid poem.
