Less Tattered Than We Came In

We interlock our four hands to make a cradle for our offspring
pious devotion, our sour blossom blooming outward within our palms

It is a sickly yellow-green, a regurgitated tint we
look past in order to recognize the simplest factor

It belongs to us

We nurture it with our sweat beads
and fallen flakes of skin

This flower soaks into its flesh the serpentine lullabies
that spill down from our lips

How many dozens of cuts do we have between
our elbows and wrists, you and I?

But if we cup this flower amongst our thumbs
and the soft side of our knuckles

We will come out of this less tattered than we came in

In thanks, it shudders and releases its smoke and odor
that slithers up to draw the moisture from our eyes

But we do not blink it away, despite the stinging
we will let it dry us out until our irises deaden

Our timidity blooming with the petals, despite our barren tissue
in quiet desperation that we will come out of this less tattered than we came in