replaced the childhood temporary tattoo

with a real one—not of dragons or swords,

but flowers, a pot of petunias that kiss

my wrist with feelings of the closest

thing I’ve ever had to

home; I’ve never identified it

with a structure, its supports inclined to 

withstand the living. no,

the word is within the beating pulse

laid atop my own, our hands clasped 

together 

as we stir the jam. outside, neighbors

chip away at summer grass grown too 

tall for comfort, birds cry out for 

afternoon snacks, and a saw cuts

through pine wood. you 

ask me to taste our work, guide

my fingers to the bowl. 

                                  “does it taste like strawberries?”

                                  “it tastes like Florida.” 

and you laugh, that

breath breezing

past the blue flowers aligned

on the windowsill. 

and when people ask,

            “why petunias?”

I reply,
              “why not home?”