I lie back

and feel the grass come through my clothes –

my shoulder blades and backside damp,

a rub of earth in my hair, combed down over the hill,

woven with the chummy white heads, bending near my ear,

ready.

 

I pick one and twist it around in-between my thumb and forefinger.

A little yellow comes undone.  I feel bad, despite his docile dance

and run my fingers over the tips of his crown;

he will have his say.

 

I pluck up the courage - I will or will not

sit here all day in the sun,

I will or will not choose to meet you later

by the statue,

I will or will not let you take my clothes,

peel me one by one

and

not really listen to anything I say.

 

I will cry. I will pretend that I don't want to cry.

I will not get drunk. I will not get too drunk.

I will feel high. I will be low.

I will not cause a scene. I will not remember it.

 

I will stop.

 

I will think you love me.

I will know you don’t.

 

I will let things go.

I will not.

 

I toss the bud and remaining petals over my head –

not quite ready to make him my murderer.