SELF-PORTRAIT AS LANDSCAPE
And here I am, lying
in the sunflower field, blooms
grown high above my head. The scent
of sex, of pollen, and the sound
of insects claiming this field
as their own. If petrichor
is the scent that follows rainfall,
I must smell like the aftermath
of a forest fire. And yellow is too weak
a word for these flowers so bright.
I envy the way they manage to be
beautiful without trying.
After death, anyone can see
the suffering a body bears
but what of the mind?
Above me, the sky is impossibly blue,
the telephone wires punctuated
by birds. I am the sun,
burning everything I touch.