Riddle

You can’t love me. Even your tender children laugh at my beheading.

But she is your phoenix, a letter you study, an apologetic kiss in a white room.

I carve cities, pick pick picking into the deep.

She builds bridges, cathedrals, and star-softened spaces.

How you hate my mosquito hunger and my gargoyle fingers.

She is winter’s oyster, a cocoon on a frosty limb.

I spread my children to the wind to roam, eat, and die.

She hides hers at her feet, and slowly they rise.

You quench me with acidic storms. I shrink inside my uniform,

but I sink into my cities. I crawl deeper, raising webs around her knees.

I curse your hands. I curse your aching shoulders.

She lifts your chin and sings the light back into your eyes.

I am the dandelion.

She is the lily.