Puckered for a kiss, your flowers' golden lips beg
all the way up the trail. Are you just about the show?
Sticky Monkey—stage name to beat.
Look at the audience you draw:
bush lupine, prickly pear, Indian paintbrush, scarlet pimpernel.
Poison oak draped around you like it owns you.
It never used to be like this, all bustle and flame. You were salve,
eased fever. The Coast Miwok, the Pomo, they knew
you relieved burning. Have we forgotten your roots?
These days, it feels like a matter of time—everyone at the party
knocking paper cups together, pointing manicured fingers at the view,
a petal away from combusting. Right now, in another place,
the blazes chase glossy black-cockatoos, water skinks, bristlebirds.
How deep is memory buried?
So beautiful—your scorched, little mouths.
