ode to the tough, the unruly, the too-loud, the dandelion girls

“Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is.”  -Oscar Wilde

The only line between a flower and a weed
is judgment.

And I—judge, jury, executioner—
preside over the wild court of my mind.

In death, a dandelion grows
bunny-soft fur—gentle gifts
you could fill a pillow with.

Sleep. Rest.
But instead, we blow it to the wind,
selfish—turning their death into our wishes.

A maybe, a what if that never fails—
it bends, it morphs, it floats
into whatever I need it to be.
The dead don’t disappoint.
They shift, reshape,
become whatever I crave
right now.

Death is a seed
planted into the dirt,
rubbed from the corner of my eye
when I wake up, watered in
yesterday's tears.

But alive?
It was better.
The fucking best.

A riot of yellow grins,
spirals of lion manes.
Growing!
    Everywhere!
            Anywhere!
Sprouting in lawns,
gardens, gutters,
sidewalk cracks,
asphalt parking lots.

Do you know how tough
a flower must be
to grow through cement?

Pretty and hard,
like ballerina toes—
bloody, calloused,
but full of grace.

Like a cowgirl
shooting stars from her boots.

Like best friends sharing clothes.

Like a tombstone photo of a girl
mid-laugh, face soaked from 
a  water-balloon fight—
Put into the ground too young.

Dandelion.
Not a weed.
Not a flower.
It’s medicine.

Drink it down—
the tea licks your liver,
clears your kidneys,
soothes your heartache.

Take it every day,
until my seeds drift
on a child’s breath.
Your wish becomes my command.