Flowers on my Jaw

I never realized how short is the space between my jaw and my temple, 
I wonder, is it small for you there too? 
I wonder how many flowers I could grow along its border,
plant the seeds in the gums of my teeth and watch for what happens when I am left in the sun;
but the space and its flowers I thought immaculate 
you ground into fine particles of dust and snorted up,
got high off of the fault lines of me. 
I am in a Volvo on dry land and the Volvo is filling up with water 
from some unsung genesis, 
and you stand on the outside, watching me die against the ceiling,
I didn't know ceilings could get so dirty, so stained, 
even God can forget to clean, I suppose.
I am what the poets call a beautiful tragedy, 
they call me that with a cigarette in one hand and their cock in the other,
they give pseudo-intellectual speeches for awards and my tragedy is enough to finance their drinking problem for several years.
When I think of the flowers that grow from my temple to my jaw,
I think of spaghetti with tomato sauce, and twirling it with a cold metal spoon, 
I think of german shepherd dogs with large ears,
I think of reading the comic strips in the newspapers on Saturday mornings when the morning sky is still a filmy mix of moon and sun light. 
I think of the clumped and sooty wool of sheep that grows and pokes out in patches, 
of floorboards with wine bottles and Smith albums under them, 
hidden from mothers with no taste for life.
When I think of the flowers that grow from my temple to my jaw, 
I do not think of the Volvo, 
the water,
the tragedy you make out of me, 
I think about how my first breath was a sonnet and so will be my last,
but it won't be today. 

-anna sluder 

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