babyfox mountain sheep
not your mom's brooklyn accent
DON’T CALL ME BUTTERCUP

19 years ago there were buttercups twisting 
under my chin, that yellow stain proof of God. 

Eyes full of squint, 
young grass reached for my fists.

Spring grew inside my mother,
a hungry wolf sniffed her out.

A name is a plucked dandelion,
we pray to wake the sleeping wind.

I wish I knew how many suns
it takes to make an apology.

All that sky and you still can’t cry hard enough
to make it rain.

amy woodside

    1. Timestamp: Wednesday 2013/01/23 12:57:31amy woodsidedon't call me buttercuppoem