FLORISTS’ CODE OF ETHICS

Sita Inas Mere Nada

i.

The florist refuses to tell me
who sent the missing bouquet

You grow allergic to my lipstick
My longhand My tongue’s twists and tics

With the patience of petrified bark
I wade in and wait on the far shore

Why did we think we could tame the tides?
When did my love turn to kudzu?

To think I’ll never see again
the dogwood on your mantle

ii.

Rosewater anoints the mosque’s mortar
Graces Her rosary Perfumes mandala hearts

Lift your glass of spirits to loosen your own
I’ve drunk more potatoes than I’ve eaten

Your lips kiss petals
but not my petals

The humidity undoes me
I can’t resist myself

The winestain is my fault
The winestain is me

iii. 

The Queen’s cards repaint the blossoms
as you take a selfie smelling the roses 

I meet you under the lunar eclipse
in my fuck you dress and my fuck me heels

Your rose garden: April Moon Quietness Folksinger
Empress Mermaid Mozart Borderer Winecup Souvenir 

Poison ivy may not bloom
but his rash sure does

Though not dead
I crave roots overhead

Your winter strawberries Slick scarlet hearts
taste of nothing Not even air

 

SITA INAS MERE NADA is a traveller and poet.