Red Woman

Red woman

I will not write another poem
about a woman blooming,
finally risking everything for
a life that she deserves.
I don’t know, maybe I’m cynical
or maybe I’m just tired of flowers.
It’s romantic and poetic
to compare a woman to a flower,
but honestly, at this point,
I rather be a weed-
strong,
unyielding,
resilient,
and pissy.

I’ve had some colossal wars with dandelions
who not only kept claim to their plot of land,
but conquered, divided, and multiplied.
These bitches don’t go down without a fight.
Now, it’s not so important for me to claim a piece of land
or have my roots tied tightly to some thing,
but it is important that I claim my life.
My life.

And if that involves risking and blooming, then so be it,
because I have been a seed buried in a wind of lost days,
but now, I am reimagining a field of second chances.

Instead of petals falling,
I will send out a legion of seeds,
those unbelievably fuzzy white seeds,
the ones we spend summer days trying to catch,
the ones that make wishes come true.

Because you know, dandelions,
they can survive anything.