My Gardener

is trying to decide
what genus of flower

I will grow into. He’s
trying to fit me into

a peony or a gladiola,
the woven up ivy

along a steady succession
of fencing and bridge.

He’s trying to test the
viscosity of my nectar with

one lick and tug of his thumb
inside me. He smells it after

removal. Makes me
shit into test tubes, a brick

the next morning,
never taking off his shirt.

Feeding me cacti and
the spiders who reside in

its quills. I watched him flex
his thigh muscles around

the skull of a caribou piercing
ivory antlers and deciding

I am the deliciously
male and female yew tree.

He planted me in his yard until
the neighborhood had me removed.

I miss sucking his fingers,
the sure fire trigger of sweet honey.

Oh bumblebee, Oh botanist,
take me into your god damn greenhouse.