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2: Recoil

photo: Marcy Albin
Pot of spent pollen
prickly with armor. Darkens
to honeycomb sap.

Recoil petals curl.
Fallow tubes and knife tongue meet.
Small tools burrow in.

This morning, upright.
Plumped up. Anticipate touch.
I will not concede.

Look at me, all of
me, what has sloughed off and is
Never forgotten.

Each seed a center.
Bite of butterscotch and fire.
Readied for the fight.

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