Thorn Gets Theoretical

You got it wrong. I'm no escort,
         a sword protecting a bit of fluff.
The flower was my idea. Sure,
         my only one, but one's enough.

There's nothing quite as gratifying
         as watching a bright face go slack
then crumple in pain. You're just dying
         to say it, go on: I'm a prick,

but you got to admit I'm clever
         posing as a mousy brown twig
when I can flash quick as a cleaver.
         There. You know you deserve that sting.

Though flowers open and break down,
         exposing their sexual wares
to the rough wind, I stick around
         exacting payment from the careless.

Copyright © 2003 Michelle Boisseau All rights reserved
from Trembling Air
University of Arkansas Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission