MADONNA AND CHILD IN BLOOM

Photo from Unsplash.

You bestow the crown as if 
your own creation, as if 
your sapling thumbs could tie 
stems and protect their petals
from your own passion. 
Seconds ago, I saw your hand 
plunge into the dog’s mouth—open, 
innocent, a single whine to welcome 
and tremble at your wild love. 

Those drooling fingertips 
pat my hair, pasting flowers 
trimmed with dirt and spider gauze 
you gathered in my blink. 
I swear you treasure every mess 
you make. I see it now 
in your beam, tender for my eyes
and a wilting wreath, 
perhaps in equal measure. 

Freeing your hands
from the chain, your joy breaks 
through in cryptic babble peppered 
with the words you have for this:

roses, mama, mine roses