“It is the blight [Daisy] was born for.”
First, they make you with dog tags,
nine numbers, certificates of birth.
Later, you sign a non-compete
for your minimum wage box-packing
job. You must not. Can not. Dirt.
Mulch. The world boils with 24 stars.
Dear analog Daisy, for example, I would
love you love you, for example, yellow and joy
if I could but find you slack spare
child in the processing center
—if your parents hadn’t sent you desert
over border walking, paperless,
if the thin green blankets, army
issue didn’t dissolve like bees in this century.
Indiana, Texas, Arkansas, Kansas
can go to—Oh, remember. Remember
we are leaves. We are the deep
that roses spring. We are filled of dust
and dirt. Make us of charcoal. Make
us the green mosaic. Raise our heads
and mourn until joy. Raise our heads.
Change they until we come back
whole and flesh, petaled deep corollas.