Ribbons: A Random Assortment of Poetry

Ms. Hash's Children

She is a strong bush,

     Scented enough to kill everything

     You ever thought about without a sweat

But a fire.

     Potent, she walks with the weight

     Of stems and she's wide and expensive.

We are who lick her white dresses

     And inhale her beautifully in French

     With our faces in a predatory state,

With our eyes in a dark glow,

     Laughing at every little thing.

She owns us, we pay her to live in us

     In held breath, to lush about our lungs

     Coating, but only staying for a moment.

Her face is glass, her hole is warm

     Evacuating in me by a lighter's heat,

     Erupting with laughter while we cough.

And when she's gone she is gone,

     And we're left with nothing but her fragrance,

     That aroma that haunts our hiding spots.

Then it's the chase and the shady connections,

     The coded messages, the secret handshakes,

Hand-offs, missed eye contacts and retreat

     Back to our safe spaces

     With Ms. Hash snug in her pocket bed.

     She secretly loves us all, all and any that

Can't possibly go a night without her

     Calming us to sleep, helping whatever we're doing

     Seem better than it is, such little comforts

That come from her spark-fire kisses,

     Hazed and bathed in her glory.

     With her there is safety in smoke.

We are her children.