February 13, 2014

Cacti


We are not so 
well-made for love
as these,
scattered across
our arid plain.
Silent weapons
wait in their arms,
each a threat
for causing pain.
Careful. You know 
not to touch again.

My thorns, vestige 
from another age,
scare no one 
like before. 
They whisper go ahead,
touch me now,
I can't hurt you,
anymore.

1/19/2014