No Third Eye
Your take my large green head and roll it in your mouth like it is a new kind of gumball.
And my eye at the end of my flowered tongue is not the third eye
they always talk about. It is not the first or second eye that floats at the front of my head.
Some dancers talk about the need to curl their toes and spin on a point,
the need to tell a story without words, without the locks our we wear
on our helmets.
Didn’t you know the grass in the field grew into your lungs
the day you flew that kite?
Didn’t you know I became this color because I had a thing for bees?
And I could tell you a thing or two about their fight.
The day I saw the tree heavy with avocado growing out of that concrete slab--
The day we decided we had to let the tree go-- after its long service--
The day you held me at a distance because
you had an allergy to the gardens on my tongue--
that was when it came, that sole eye
the one that says
we are both awake.