the men made of flowers. who snap in two when you hold on to them too long. who leave their petals on the kitchen floor beside a knife when life shakes them. who are bleeding roses, tulips and love from the left corner of their lip.
These men use their tongue to paint the world in scopes of colour before dawn has even broken into the living room. They painstaking single out every shade.
this green one is the aunt who drowned in the rivers of a man before I was born.
the orange-red one is my mother.
The blue one is my father.
The black one is me.
Black is a colour too didn’t you know.
There are not enough spaces for these men in manhood. They do not own enough for people who live to give. They are dancing to a dying idea. These men who cannot spell masculine without music. Brittle beautiful flower men.
being a man is being at war with everything and myself.
Flower men with galaxies and glaciers contorting in their chest. who watch limbs grow into fingers of kindness. Toes of endurance. knees of apology. men born of camaraderie with the sun, wind and everything else we take for granted.
plant me here so that, even if you forget me I will grow and blossom.