I lie back
and feel the grass come through my clothes –
my shoulder blades and backside damp,
a rub of earth in my hair, combed down over the hill,
woven with the chummy white heads, bending near my ear,
I pick one and twist it around in-between my thumb and forefinger.
A little yellow comes undone. I feel bad, despite his docile dance
and run my fingers over the tips of his crown;
he will have his say.
I pluck up the courage - I will or will not
sit here all day in the sun,
I will or will not choose to meet you later
by the statue,
I will or will not let you take my clothes,
peel me one by one
not really listen to anything I say.
I will cry. I will pretend that I don't want to cry.
I will not get drunk. I will not get too drunk.
I will feel high. I will be low.
I will not cause a scene. I will not remember it.
I will stop.
I will think you love me.
I will know you don’t.
I will let things go.
I will not.
I toss the bud and remaining petals over my head –
not quite ready to make him my murderer.