Dandelion

A million times i’ve died

before april peaked and spring

sung torrential arias.

Before a drop of bourbon quenched

August-shut esophagus, dark caramel tones

fragrant now.

A lawn mower razing you

strolling mixed concrete embedded with your pale flesh

Pappus soars as a squadron of fighter jets and bombers

Lion toothed and roots three feet under

Summer couldn’t strike you

blooming from nothing more than a talon sized emaciated twig.

Parts of your tarsal seeds germinate even as

you grow again after being met with scythe electric

silver tipped lashes scar never wounding: Am I your prey?