why don’t you write about us?
chide the flowers by the wayside

when I say
I’m a poet of tears
irises say
they are unabated teardrops
of the leaves

when I say
I’m a poet of blood
hibiscuses say
they are blood clotted
in the unseen wounds of the twigs

when I say
I’m a poet of ulcers
roses say
they are ulcers encrusted
on the thorn-pricked stems

when I say
I’m a poet of fire
kanikkonnas say
they are fire flaring up from
the roots burning
meandering in the soil

when I say
I’m a poet of ashes
champakas say
they are ashes
still hot in the cemetery of the spring

poor flowers!
they don’t know that
it’s only about flowers
I write.