AWI.MAIN

pistil

one can’t help but sympathize
with the fate of dandelions:
that which rests in a child’s breath
a nostalgic death by puckered lips

and you look at me now
with a frightful understanding
of synchronized swing sets
and the superstitions of childhood chants

you blow cool air across
the ridges of my lips
a warm whisper enters my ear
downcast, I face the reaper