yorkshireman, "Purple thistle," 2015
The choke is blown. Drifts of down that the wind’s not lifted, gather; I reach to touch the amethyst edge, am pricked, set with a welling ruby, my skin the finding for a rare jewel. Quilting for a goldfinch nest, tinder for a hunter’s fire, choke protecting the heart beneath, baskets of down to fill a mattress: soft as I lay upon it under your gaze. Later, alone, a few spines pierce the pallet ticking, leave me tossing: sleepless, prickly nights.