I love my cactus.
I love to hold;
keep her frozen
stiff and cold
I hug her tightly
and through my heart
the prickles stab
like modern art
metal sculptures
of porcupines,
and puffer fish
with angry tines,
kitty claws,
fangs extended,
and menopause.
Symptomology.
Itchy rash.
The astrology
I read to day
said 5 star days!
But I’m pierced
in all those ways.
so I’m drawn
to my cactus
just like a pawn.
I want to eat
her tasty flesh,
her tender meat.
Her tender bees?
Ouch! I’m stung!
I lick her wrong
and she pokes my tongue
like a live catfish
(how it tickles
swallowed whole
with its prickles,
(but filleted
she’s soooo yummy
fried in butter,
in my tummy)).
and reckless care,
I can consume
my prickly pear.
Like painful pleasure;
pleasurable pain;
laugh-‘til-tears;
blissful insane.
Like wise teeth
sometimes impact us,
how I love
I love my cactus